


Petals on a Wet, Black Bough

by Kayly Silverstorm (Kayly_Silverstorm)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bromance, Charles is a BAMF, Child Abuse, Erik is working on his people skills, Forced Mind-Meld, Friendship, Mental Breakdown, beach divorce fix-it, being a telepath sucks, mentioned rape, or slash - who knows with Erik and Charles, saving the world with telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-24
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-08 11:09:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/442563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayly_Silverstorm/pseuds/Kayly%20Silverstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shaw and Azazel free Emma Frost, instead of letting her rot in CIA custody, when Frost comes after Charles, events take a different turn. And their world will never be the same again. Can be read as deep friendship or pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the purposes of this story, I’ve tweaked the events of the film a bit. This begins after Erik has managed to move the satellite dish, but instead of following that right up with the President’s address, the inhabitants of the Mansion go and have lunch first. (Did you notice that nobody ever eats in that movie? It’s not healthy.)
> 
>  
> 
> This is dedicated to m’colleague mslanna, who has been my fellow-explorer of this new fandom, my muse, and my best friend for more years than we both care to admit. We’re sisters, you and I. Regardless.
> 
>  
> 
> Ginormous praise and thanks go to my beta, tamzette!

Chapter 1

  


If Erik has learned one thing in his life, it is that you should never trust the peace to last. And yet it is this single most important lesson he forgets first, surrounded by the comforts of Charles’ house, the returned memory of his mother’s touch still fresh in his mind.

  


So the attack comes out of nowhere and finds him wholly unprepared.

  
One moment, Charles is chuckling over something Sean has just said, his teacup cradled elegantly in his long, uncalloused fingers, his face a study of unbridled amusement. He is a warm, steady presence at the table, binding them together with his faith and enthusiasm as he always does, so very alive. The next moment, his eyes close, his hands go slack and his teacup shatters on the floor. 

 

“Oh dear,” he murmurs, the dread in his voice so _different_ from Charles’ usual confidence, so utterly unexpected, that everyone at the table notices. “Raven? My shields are gone…”

  


And then the professor throws his head back, topples from his chair, and screams and screams and screams.

  


xXx

 

_Before: _

 

“Everyone’s training but you,” Erik tells Charles reproachfully one day during dinner, after approximately twelve hours of honing his focus, _not_ killing teenagers, and listening to Charles’ patronizing drivel about having complete faith in them. 

 

He’s glad that he won’t have to go against Shaw alone. He’s enjoying this long phase of what he can only term ‘down time’ for lack of a better word. He might even be willing to admit (to himself) that no longer being alone, the only one, sends a thrill of joy through him now and again.

  


But Charles Xavier? This naïve, wildly self-confident, disconcertingly young professor with the attention span of a six-year-old and the pompousness of an old man? Really sets his teeth on edge sometimes. Like now.

  


He can’t understand where Charles takes it from, this unshakeable belief that he can help, can change, can make everything better. He looks at them with the confidence of a jeweler, who knows that the different parts of them will become perfectly whole once linked on a single chain, simply because he’s seen it before.

 

That infuriates Erik. Because no one has seen anything like him before. It’s never that easy.

  


Raven hears his words, takes a good look at him, and _bursts_ out laughing. It is insulting and bewildering, as if he’s the butt of a joke he doesn’t even get, and it becomes more so when he catches sight of Charles’ smile, soft, secretive, and entirely patronizing.

 

“It’s true,” Erik says, angry with himself for being hurt. “We all use our powers constantly, testing the limits of what we can do. But you just stand around, give rousing speeches and show off a bit now and then.”

 

What he doesn’t say is this: _I’ve seen you do things, Charles, that I never dreamed possible. Finding mutants over the distance of continents, cloaking our presence completely, taking over other minds and bodies and senses, and yet here you are, limiting yourself to cheap parlor tricks_.

 

What he doesn’t even allow himself to think is this: _Perhaps you’ve just never needed your powers enough, rich and pampered as you’ve always been_. 

 

Charles’ eyes, very blue and irritatingly unreadable, give no clue whether the telepath has caught any of that. But his smile deepens. 

 

“I’m glad you think so, my friend,” he just says quietly, then rises and leaves the room. Raven is still chuckling.

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Erik asks, and if his voice is a bit too sharp and his teeth show a bit too much, if his stance is too menacing, he doesn’t care. He will not be made fun of.

 

Raven swallows her amusement very quickly, and her hands are not quite steady as she grasps her cutlery.

 

_You look like a shark _ , one of his contacts once told him. _And I’m never quite sure when you’ll bite_.

 

“It means that he’s relieved you don’t know better yet,” Raven says, more soberly. “Living in this house with him for almost a week, and you still thinking he’s barely using his power – that means he’s training harder than any of us.”

 

She refuses to answer any more questions after that.

 

xXx

 

Charles is screaming his head off, and Raven is rushing towards them, and Moira has drawn her gun, and Erik is on his feet searching for the source of the attack, but he can’t find anything, nothing at all, Sean, Alex and Hank are still frozen to their chairs in shock, and then Raven kneels at Charles’ side, hands ghosting over his face, not quite touching him, and then she screams, too.

 

“Calm down, everybody,” she shouts, her voice unusually high-pitched and slightly desperate. “Calm down, now! You’re hurting him!”

 

Erik wants to shout back that she has clearly lost her mind and that they must find the intruder, now, but then something changes in the air, and although Charles’ mouth is still screaming, he is also talking, in their heads, in the room, _everywhere_ , and his voice is like thunder, filling their ears, his words are lightning striking their brains with no place to hide from it.

 

_Knock me out, Raven. I can’t… you have to knock me out NOW. _

 

And Raven does, and Charles’ twisted face abruptly slackens, and the world falls terribly, unnaturally quiet.

 

xXx

 

_Before: _

 

“You’re angry with me,” Charles remarks calmly as he walks over to Erik and rests his hands on the balustrade of the terrace.

 

The gardens are beautiful in the evening sun; they are always beautiful, but tonight their serenity seems to mock Erik.

 

Comfort is always deceit. Safety is always a lie, and it has taken no more than the scratchy sound of a gramophone in the background and the promise of chocolate to stop Erik from trusting beauty and joy, ever again.

 

He’s almost forgotten over the past week.

 

“Why?”

 

The question’s simplicity surprises him, adding to and echoing his thoughts, and for a moment Erik wonders whether Charles is reading his mind again. Erik has to work to understand the people around him. But for Charles, every conversation is small talk in comparison to what he knows about you with a simple thought, and that makes Erik even angrier. 

 

Why is everything always so _easy_ for Charles, when other people have to constantly fight for mere survival?

 

“Why do you think?” He grinds out, and can see Charles’ face fall in answer. How can a mind reader have such a face, expressive like an open book?

 

“I apologize, Erik,” Charles says after a long moment. “I confess that I assumed you knew more about my power than you actually do. Sometimes, it’s difficult to distinguish between other people’s knowledge and my own.”

 

The apology – so easy, again – leaves a bitter taste in Erik’s mouth. Charles gives so willingly, so freely of what is his that everyone must be a miser in comparison.

 

“Then explain it to me. Your amusement,” he demands and sees Charles hesitate. “Or do you insist on being the all-knowing mystery of this group, my _friend_?”

 

The reminder is a harsh one ( _friends are equals, Charles, not acolytes_ ), and Charles’ face falls even more. But if Erik wasn’t defeated by cruelty, he certainly won’t be conquered by sensitivity.

 

Still, Charles hesitates. 

 

“I’m different,” he then, finally says, and Erik snorts with bitter amusement. 

 

That sentence is so Charles, understatement and arrogance wrapped in disarming honesty.

 

His friend understands his reaction immediately, the corners of his eyes crinkling in shared amusement, and that, too, is Charles, this willingness to take the other’s point of view, always ready to laugh about himself.

 

“What I mean,” Charles tries again, lips twitching. “Is that reaching out with my powers, stretching my limits isn’t a challenge for me. I’ve done that far longer than I care to remember.”

 

Shadows pass across his face for a heartbeat, but he continues, not acknowledging them.

 

“For me, the real challenge is to limit myself, and I’ve been rather hard at work on that.”

 

Erik suddenly remembers his own question, asked as a challenge ( _What do you know about me?)_ and Charles’ answer, quiet, confident, leaving no doubt ( _Everything)_.

 

He remembers that crawling fear of having someone else in his head, that instinct to shy away, to lash out, to stop this invasion, and he realizes that in the weeks since then, he’s quite forgotten what being a telepath really means. Has forgotten Charles’ powers despite the constant reminders that are given. 

 

He realizes that everyone living in this house is interacting comfortably with someone who’s inside their heads, all the time, knows their every secret, and for one moment he glimpses the effort Charles must put into this, this perfect persona of a harmless college professor that no one would ever mistrust. He marvels at Charles’ true power.

 

Erik thinks he has understood. But he has no idea, no idea at all.

 

xXx

 

Each of them reacts differently to the sudden absence of Charles’ screams, mental and physical.

 

Sean and Alex sink back on their chairs, still in shock; it has been only minutes since all was peace and harmony, after all. Moira is securing the room, the gun in her hand humming in Erik’s mind. Hank rushes over to Raven, who is sitting on the floor, face grim, Charles’ head in her lap. 

 

But Erik, instincts honed by years of running and hiding, hunting and fleeing, Erik is off, out through the dining room’s French windows, on the terrace, over the balustrade, towards the front gate where he feels the presence of a metal vehicle, a car or van.

 

He reaches the gate only to see it speeding away, and the knowledge that any other person on this planet would probably be helpless right now fills him with grim satisfaction. 

 

He isn’t helpless. 

 

He raises his hand.

 

The car comes to a screeching halt. The wheels lose contact with the road. The metal comes rushing towards him through the air, like an obedient dog, and although his friend is lying on the kitchen floor right now, unconscious, he can still feel his voice whispering through his mind – _between rage and serenity_.

 

It is easy to control the car, so incredibly easy that Erik wants to laugh, but that lasts only until the car’s driver comes into view, and then his teeth are bared in a snarl, not laughter.

 

Emma Frost is unconscious, bleeding from a small head wound, but still stunningly beautiful. Her presence lends a horrible explanation to the events, and Erik just hopes that he’s wrong. 

 

But Emma is an expert on shielding and blocking with her damned diamond form. He remembers the overwhelming chaos of memories she threw at him during their first confrontation, the way not even Charles could get into her head when she was in defense mode, and once again he hears the sudden dread in Charles’ voice.

 

_Raven? My shields are gone… _

 

If Frost did what Erik suspects her of doing, he will make sure that she won’t survive the day. 

 

Right after she’s undone it.

 

xXx

 

_Before: _

 

“How are you doing, Charles?” Raven asks later that same evening. “Truly, I mean.”

 

She and Charles are standing outside the study Erik is currently occupying, both with their backs to him, both seemingly deep in thought, and although Erik is quite sure that Charles knows he’s here and able to overhear every word, Erik is also aware that he should probably leave.

 

But Erik’s curious. For once he’s not after information he needs for his hunt, not searching for proof of past crimes and horror in its most painful detail, but simply curious.

 

That’s a new feeling for him, so he can’t help but indulge. And surely Charles would end this conversation if he minded.

 

“I’m fine,” Charles now says lightly, and Erik can see his shoulders rolling, up and down, the comfortable shrug of a relaxed man.

 

“Oh, really?" There’s some undertone in Raven’s voice that Erik can’t place, but from the stiffening in Charles shoulders, the other man certainly can.

 

“Really,” he answers a bit sharper now, though still calm. “Drop it, Raven.”

 

“I can’t, Charles,” she disagrees hotly. “This is the first time in years you’ve been among so many people continuously. It must have an effect, and if you won’t talk to me…”

 

Charles scoffs. His voice is all amusement and soft reprimand, but Erik’s good at reading body language, and Charles is very bad at hiding it.

 

“That’s hardly true,” Charles says. “Oxford is a city, after all, and this is an isolated mansion. You can’t compare…”

 

“Oxford, yes, where people have organized minds concentrated on research, and where you spent every weekend in your cottage in the middle of nothing to ‘study in peace’…”

 

Raven’s fingers mimic inverted commas, her voice agitated.

 

“Oxford, a place where normal people live, where they sleep without nightmares. This, however…” the angry sweep of her hand encompasses the mansion, the mutants living in it, and a whole world of things Erik doesn’t know about. “This has left you no time to breathe, has it? Weeks in close company, only interrupted by that field trip around the most populated areas, and all that with a bunch of traumatized mutants who probably broadcast so loudly you have to…”

 

“Enough, Raven,” hisses Charles, very cold and very forbidding, and all of a sudden he looks dangerous, more dangerous than Erik had ever thought possible. It’s disconcerting, but also strangely exhilarating.

 

Raven has flinched away from her brother, startled by the sudden outbreak, and without seeing it, Erik knows that Charles’ face will soften now, assuming that self-deprecating expression that will scream ‘harmless’ to all and sundry.

 

Charles’ shoulders sag.

 

“Please. Don’t spoil this for me,” he says, like he did before Cerebro was first activated, and somehow Erik knows he isn’t only talking to Raven.

 

xXx

 

Erik takes Frost through the garden and up to the terrace, car and all. He ignores the awe he can read in Sean’s and Alex’s faces, ignores that this would have been a feat taxing him to his limits mere days ago. 

 

What he doesn’t ignore is the unconscious body of his friend, surprisingly small and very pale. The sight makes the balance between rage and serenity slip dangerously to one side. 

 

“She did this,” he says shortly, harshly. “I’ll wake her up and make her talk.”

 

His eyes dart past the three boys and Moira to rest on Raven, whose hands are helplessly petting her brother’s hair. He waits for her nod, then silently twists one of his hands.

 

Emma Frost wakes up screaming in pain, bruised by the metal that is tightening around her. Erik does not care. He’s given in to pity before, a kindness that has led to this. 

 

Never again.

 

But he lets Raven do the talking. She knows more about telepaths than he does, and from the utter rage he sees in her he doubts that she will be too soft on Frost. 

 

He’s right.

 

“What the hell did you do to him?” Raven demands and doesn’t need to voice a threat, so burning are her eyes.

 

To give her credit, Frost plays it cool. She just shrugs, and if the tightly encasing metal around her left the space would probably examine her fingernails nonchalantly. She looks the type for that.

 

But Erik isn’t the type for patience. His fingers twitch, the metal squeezes, and suddenly Frost is talking, talking very fast indeed.

 

“I shattered his shields,” she explains, and despite the pain she must be in she still manages to sound petty and vindictive. “It’s a special talent of mine, although I never used it on anyone as delicious as your brother. Normal humans go mad if that happens to them, but for him it’s even worse.” 

 

There’s something twisted in her face, something incredibly ugly about her cool beauty, and Erik understands that Shaw has succeeded with her where he failed with him. 

 

Emma Frost is broken forever. 

 

“What do you mean,” Raven hisses, and Frost seems willing to talk now, seems even glad to brag of her _achievement_.

 

“As a telepath, he’s more aware of his mental defenses than you boring idiots. Normally, he could just bring his shields back up, but I made sure there’s nothing left of them to put together again – he’ll have to build completely new ones, all the while dealing with the input from all of you and everyone in his reach, and honey, as powerful as he is?”

 

Frost cocks her head, and while she’s visibly proud of doing this to the much stronger Charles, there’s also something else in her eyes – regret?

 

“He doesn’t stand a chance to stay sane long enough to manage that. I wouldn’t, and my reach isn’t half of his. You can kiss your genius brother goodbye right now.”

 

xXx

 

_Before: _

 

“How can you do this?” Erik demands late in the evening as the two of them are engaging in their customary game of chess. 

 

It’s been another day of training during which Erik has pushed himself harder and learned more about his powers and about himself than he has since Schmidt. But this time it’s another side of him the training’s bringing forward, and when he looked at Charles earlier that day, their eyes meeting over the space where Sean has just stood, Sean, who is now flying, _flying_ , it was with the realization that he’d been using his powers all day, and pain hadn’t come into it.

 

It’s a typical Charles lesson, and for one moment, Erik feels cheated out of his beliefs. Things aren’t that easy. They are always painful, and Charles had better understand that fast.

 

Erik is aware that he’s unreasonably angry when all he should feel is pride over his achievement. But it’s always been this way for him, and sometimes he wonders if there will ever be anything in his life not tainted by Shaw.

 

“Do what, exactly, my friend?” Charles asks mildly and moves a bishop.

 

“Be so naïve,” Erik hisses, enraged by how Charles refuses to match his tone, to step into the confrontation like everybody else would. He should be taking Erik seriously, not cater to his whims as if he was a misbehaving child, and, by God, Erik will _make_ him listen. 

 

This rage has often led him to extremes, made him go where he hadn’t meant to go, and it does so, now. 

 

“I realize that you never had to want for anything in your life, Charles, that you probably don’t even know what people can do to each other, sheltered as you’ve been, but despite your privileged background you are a brilliant man, and you must realize…”

 

The expression on Charles’ face stops him in midsentence. He has expected Charles to be hurt by this attack, be arrogant about it or deflect it.

 

What he hasn’t expected is the open amusement his friend shows. Charles is chuckling, his glass of whisky cradled in one hand, the very picture of a spoiled upper class man, and yet there’s sadness in the lines around his mouth, some kind of resigned bitterness.

 

“Oh, my friend,” he says, softly, quietly. “What do you think I meant when I told you that I felt your agony?”

 

Erik’s brain stutters to a halt. 

 

What?

 

“Stop talking in riddles, Charles,” he says roughly, because Charles can’t have meant what Erik heard, can’t be saying that… “What are you on about?”

 

Charles sighs and shakes his head, as if he really, really doesn’t want to talk about this, but they’re well beyond the point of no return now, and Erik won’t let it go. All those mysterious hints about what being a telepath entails, and now this. He can’t let it go. 

 

Charles seems to realize this, although he doesn’t look happy about it. 

 

“Feeling pain is not a metaphor for me, Erik,” he therefore says slowly. “I know what Shaw did to you, just as I can tell you how many times Alex was beaten by his foster parents or how it felt when Raven was so hungry she had to steal. I won’t tell you, because I haven’t the right to divulge other people’s secrets, but I could. In great detail.”

 

Erik feels as if he can’t breathe deeply enough to fill his lungs.

 

“You mean… you experience all that?”

 

Charles is still smiling as he nods. It is a tired smile.

 

“But then,” Erik says, and he will be calm about this, he will. “Then my presence, all our presences, must be a burden to you. I’m causing you the same pain Shaw caused me, and I won’t…”

 

“Dear God, no,” Charles hastens to answer, looking a bit shocked. Is he in Erik’s head again? Or is Erik too rattled to keep up his smooth, unreadable front? “That can’t be compared at all, Erik! I experience it only for a short, concentrated moment, of course, and I’m very aware that the suffering will be over in a minute, so it is easy for me to put the emotional distress in perspective. I am also experienced in handling this sort of thing, and that makes a huge difference, too, I believe…”

 

Erik is very aware of all the things Charles isn’t saying, like _The pain is not as bad as it was in real life,_ or _Memories are muted_ , or _The feeling is different_. 

 

He’s also aware of the things Charles _is_ saying, like _suffering_ , and _emotional distress_ , and, above all, _experienced,_ as in _used to it_. He’s feeling slightly nauseous.

 

“So what you’re saying is that you can handle the pain better, and therefore it’s not as bad for you?” He asks, harshly again, but rather sure that Charles won’t misunderstand him, not if he’s telling the truth.

 

Charles hesitates, searching Erik’s eyes for something Erik can’t name. Then he nods again. 

 

“The mind is a muscle, just like Sean’s voice,” Charles says easily. “And mine is very well exercised, dear friend.”  

 

xXx

 

Carefully, Raven slips out from under Charles’ head and places it on a pillow. She walks towards Frost and Erik slowly, controlled, her agitation only visible in the way her form flickers and blurs.

 

“Fix him,” she demands, her voice a growl. “Fix him now!”

 

She changes, from blue to blonde, from girl to boy, is a woman Erik has only seen in pictures scattered around the house, is a finely dressed man with a cruel face, is Charles, his blue eyes burning with a hate that is entirely unnatural on that face.

 

And then she’s Shaw, a smile playing around his thin mouth, and the form is rock solid, perfect, and Erik can feel his own anger being fuelled by that face.

 

“Fix him,” Raven/Shaw says. “Or I’ll rip you apart.”

 

Frost actually flinches.

 

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I couldn’t hope to shield a mind such as his. A surprise attack was barely enough to get through his defenses, and that only worked because he’s exhausted – but to contain his powers? I’d drown in them!”

 

“Are you sure?” Erik asks, coldly, refusing to give in to the horror he feels. “Because you’re not making a very good case for keeping you alive.”

 

He moves. Metal screeches. She pales.

 

“I can’t,” she says again, the knowledge of death in her eyes. “I can’t!”

 

Raven hisses in frustration, but Erik refuses to lose control. Someone has to keep them together, and Charles isn’t there anymore to do it. 

 

_I knew it couldn’t last _ , he thinks desperately, but aloud he says: “Then you’ll die.”

 

He clenches his fist. Frost closes her eyes. 

 

But suddenly there’s a new voice in the room, high pitched and talking very fast, and Erik whirls around to see Charles sitting upright, eyes open wide but unseeing, and he’s talking, but it’s not his own words he’s using.

 

“He took me away,” he whispers. “Shaw took me from my mother when I was just a little girl, and it shouldn’t have happened, I was just a child, he shouldn’t have… Mama, Mama, es tut mir so leid, aber ich konnte sie einfach nicht bewegen… Do you even know what it feels like, walking these corridors every day with shoes that are too tight?… Sometimes I wish the whole word was blind, so that they couldn’t see I’m blue… You’re a monster, son…”

 

His voice rises even higher, then, into a keening wail of sorrow and pain that makes the hairs on Erik’s neck rise.

 

“You’re a monster, sitting inside my brain, eating me up, and I know what he does to you, and you deserve it… no, no, NO!”

 

And suddenly Charles is standing on his feet, trembling wildly, but his eyes are clear and so very, very blue.

 

“You don’t get to do this to me, Frost,” he snarls, and Erik wants to duck away from the blaze of power his friend is. “You don’t get to win where even my mother failed! There may be a thousand voices screaming in my head right now, but I still know who I am. Can you say the same of yourself?”

 

Emma Frost is very quiet. There’s awe in her eyes.

 

“I had to,” she says.

 

Charles is shaking wildly now, but his concentration is fixed on her.

 

“You leave me no choice,” he whispers, and after a moment, Frost nods.

 

“Do it. It will be a relief.”

 

She says it very clearly, and when Charles raises trembling fingers to his head, she doesn’t look away.

 

Charles moans in pain. Drops to his knees. Closes his eyes.

 

“I wiped her mind. She’s… not that person anymore. Raven… I… Why does he _do_ this to me? I’ve born him three sons and he cheats on me with that slut? … I can stop as soon as I want to, I don’t need this, I’ll just have one more drink… Why do they never tell you that dying hurts so fucking bad?… Raven… Ich kann ihre Asche auf meiner Haut spüren, wann immer ich die Augen schließe… Raven, please!”

 

She’s sobbing, but Raven’s hands are steady as she knocks him out just the right way, not too hard, not too soft.

 

As if she’s done it a hundred times before.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mama, Mama, es tut mir so leid, aber ich konnte sie einfach nicht bewegen = Mom, Mom, I’m so sorry, but I just couldn’t move it
> 
> Ich kann ihre Asche auf meiner Haut spüren, wann immer ich die Augen schließe = I can feel her ashes on my skin whenever I close my eyes


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the details about Charles’s power, e.g. his range, are taken from canon. ‘Twasn’t I who made him uber!

 

 

The strangest thing about it all is how Raven seems to know _exactly_ what to do.

 

She asks Erik to free the unconscious Frost from the metal surrounding her and tells Moira and Alex to put her into the bunker below the house and keep guarding her. Then she carefully gathers Charles into her arms, her body morphing into a generic muscled form while her face stays her own, and she carries the man like a familiar burden, his head resting on her arm, his limbs slack and unresponsive.

 

She carries Charles up all the way to his room and even has the presence of mind to flick back the covers before placing him on the bed, while the rest of them scatter around her like frightened chickens (not Eric, though. He’s a very angry chicken).

 

Then she fetches a cardboard box from Charles’s wardrobe and tells Hank to install the IV-equipment she takes from it. She secures the position of Charles’s arm with a silk scarf from the box ( _Why’s there a silk scarf hidden in a cardboard box in Charles’s bedroom? And why the hell an IV_?).

 

Raven places the needle herself, movements quick and efficient, and instructs Hank to start a slow drip to keep Charles hydrated.

 

“No telling how long this’ll last,” she murmurs, then looks up, catches their eyes, and scoffs.

 

“Oh please,” she says. “With the way a mutant puberty works, do you really think this has never happened before?”

 

“So he’ll be alright?” Sean asks eagerly, not bothering to hide how dependent he is on Charles after only a week.

 

Raven’s face twitches, and Erik realizes that she’s frightened but doesn’t want the others to know. It seems he has underestimated her.

 

“He’s Charles,” she says, and tries to shrug. “He’s always done things nobody else could, but…”

 

“But?” Hank asks, and Raven’s too young not to confide in her friends.

 

“But the last time this happened, his telepathic range was only about a hundred miles,” she says quietly, teeth worrying her lower lip.

 

Erik doesn’t have to say that there’s nothing ‘only’ about that.

 

“And now?” He asks instead, angry at the same time that he doesn’t know, has no clue about it, when Charles knows everything there is about their abilities and limits.

 

Raven shrugs again.

 

“200 miles? 300?” She hazards a guess, and it hits Erik like a punch in the guts.

 

“Are you _serious_?” Sean asks. He’s awed by the sheer power of it, a fitting response, but Erik’s busy doing the numbers. If all of Charles’s shields are gone, and he can hear that many people…

 

“He’ll go crazy,” Erik says darkly, because illusions are never helpful in the long run.

 

“He won’t!” Raven protests. “He’s Charles! It might just take some time!”

 

Meaning he’ll be out of it when they go after Shaw, which will probably happen very soon. Meaning that Erik won’t have the one ally at his side he’s truly counted on. But he can’t even bring himself to worry about that right now.

 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” He asks instead.

 

Raven reaches for the box again and removes a few bottles of pills.

 

“These are just valerian, but they should help us relax,” she explains. “He’s reading all our emotions and thoughts right now, or will as soon as he wakes up, and the most important thing for us is to stay calm. Do happy, focused things, but nothing too intense. And try not to think about him too much, it’ll only worry him.”

 

Again her hand sneaks out and pets Charles’s hair, and Erik wonders how they found out that these things would work, whether there was anyone around to help them when it happened the first time.

 

Raven catches his eyes, and she seems to understand the question.

 

“Charles had excellent control by the time I met him, and he already knew all of this,” she says quietly. “He was a very clever boy, even at eight. And he was very motivated.”

 

xXx

 

They do not talk about it as the afternoon progresses, but Charles’s absence is visible among them as they move through the house, concentrate on their training, watch President Kennedy threaten Russia with war.

 

It’s in the way Sean opens his mouth, then closes it as he realizes the person he wanted to speak to isn’t in the room. It’s in the way Hank can’t meet anybody’s eyes, his shoulders hunched up almost to his ears. It’s in the way Alex keeps edging away from them, as if he can’t trust his newfound control without Charles there to guide him.

 

It’s in the way Moira keeps looking at them all, contemplating if they can do this, if they have any hope of succeeding without the man that brought them together.

 

Raven’s the only one acting as if nothing has happened, but Erik has seen enough people under pressure to notice the signs. As a shapeshifter, Raven can control her expressions and the tone of her skin, probably even her voice, but she can’t hide how she keeps looking at the doors of whatever room they’re in, as if expecting Charles to walk through at any moment, or how she strains her ears, listening for any sign of her brother.

 

Erik takes over the planning session, forcing them all to concentrate on the matter at hand, not allowing them to doubt the feasibility of tomorrow’s mission, because no matter what happened to Charles, there is still Shaw and the threat of war, and Erik has lived long enough to know that your own personal tragedy will never matter in the face of things to come.

 

But he, too, feels Charles’s absence like a loose tooth you can’t help worrying.

 

It’s more than missing his friend, his ally and comrade in all this, the one who could manage the others without being too harsh or demanding, the one who could fuse them all together so easily.

 

It is this: He’s keenly aware that, whatever Charles is going through, they have left him to face it alone.

 

Erik’s been alone too many times in his life, and he knows that feeling abandoned and lonely can add despair to pain, can tip the balance towards the unbearable.

 

He doesn’t want that to happen now, because Charles? He’d never leave any of them on their own in a moment like that. Charles jumped into the damned ocean to save Erik, just because he heard him cry out in his mind. Charles would never let a mission keep him from comforting a friend.

 

“He wouldn’t want you to be there. Back then he even forbade me to sit with him,” Raven tells him as they sit silently around the kitchen table.

 

And Erik doesn’t say _maybe that’s because you’re his sister_ or _maybe he doesn’t want you to see him hurt, but he’d know I could bear it_ or _maybe that’s because you don’t know very much about being in pain_.

 

Because Erik knows from personal experience that no one ever truly wants to suffer alone. It’s just that many people do not have it in them to reach out for help. Charles gave it without being asked, and that is what Erik will do this once, too.

 

So Erik doesn’t heed Raven’s advice as he bids goodnight to all of them and then takes the stairs to the upper level that holds both his and Charles’s bedrooms.

 

 

xXx

 

 

The place is dark, not a light on, and the moon outside is waning. Erik’s eyes dart through the room in a routine of detection and paranoia that’s been his companion for many years, but there’s no one here.

 

It takes him a few seconds to find Charles, because the bed can only be called ‘bed’ in the broadest sense of the word. It’s more like an ocean of pillows and blankets, and Charles is not stretched out on it as expected.

 

He’s huddled against the foot of the bed, instead, curled in on himself, arms crossed over his head as if he’s protecting himself from the rest of the world, and although something in his posture tells Erik that he hasn’t moved for a long time, he is panting wildly, straining to draw enough air into his lungs. 

 

His eyes are wide open, but the things he sees are not in this room.

 

“Charles?” Erik whispers, not knowing whether to come any closer or stay right where he is.

 

As absolutely sure as he was about coming, now that he’s here he finds that he has no idea what to do. He has no experience with a scenario like this – the suffering part, yes, the being alone and in pain part, but when has he last tried to comfort someone? Or, now that he thinks about it, has been comforted? How does one do that sort of thing?

 

“Charles… are you…,” no, he’s not going to ask whether Charles is alright, he’s not _that_ stupid. “Is there anything I can do?”

 

Charles blinks once, twice, his face a study of pain and helplessness, and Erik wants nothing more than to back out of the room. If only he had left, that night at the CIA facility. He’d probably have confronted Shaw already and been dead or victorious. He wouldn’t have to deal with this.

 

Charles draws another laboured breath. His face is wet from sweat or tears or both, and as his mouth cracks open, there’s a thin thread of spittle stretching between his lips. Erik almost looks away.

 

Not because this is distasteful to him – he’s seen much worse in the camps and after (the people he killed usually didn’t die gracefully), but there’s something fundamentally wrong with a Charles that has lost all elegance, all pose, that is reduced to this panting, whimpering wreck of a man. It feels like a violation, witnessing this.

 

“Erik? Why are you…” That is not Charles’s voice, either, this hoarse, shattered, ungainly thing. Charles’s voice is rich and confident, and his friend is not supposed to break apart like that, right in front of his eyes. “You shouldn’t be here…”

 

“No. _You_ shouldn’t be alone right now,” Erik counters, and whom is he trying to fool? This is nothing like their usual easy banter, not even remotely comparable to the eloquent to and fro that’s the basis of their connection. Charles always seems so delighted by Erik’s mere presence, so interested in his every word, but what does Erik have to give to a Charles Xavier that can’t even breathe properly?

 

“I’m dangerous,” Charles whispers and tightens his arms around his head. His eyes blink again, unnaturally slow, as if even that small movement is too great an effort. “You mustn’t be close to me… you mustn’t…”

 

The sentence devolves into a coughing fit, dry, hacking, ugly, and Charles curls into himself even further, eyes pressed against knees, hands gripping each other so tightly that the knuckles shine palely in the moonlight.

 

“Charles?”

 

But Charles can’t stop coughing, it seems. He breathes like a man drowning. The coughing goes on and on, and Erik can’t bear this anymore, can’t bear these sounds and sights that don’t belong in this beautiful house (they belong in his past, in the barracks, the hunger and cold, not to this emperor-sized bed and untainted man), and he reaches out to soothe Charles, like his mother soothed Erik when he was small, like every living creature should reach towards suffering…

 

“No, Erik… don’t… this is dangerous…”

 

But it’s too late. Erik is already connecting, touching, and the feeling of Charles’s hot, feverish flesh drives him out of his own skin, away from his body, out of everything he’s ever known and into the space between their minds that is endless and oh, so full…

 

Erik’s knees connect with the hardwood floor, but by the time the pain reaches his mind Erik is already gone…

 

…dragged into Charles’s mind and through him into the unknown…

 

Alex is in the kitchen Moira is in the bunker Sean is flying Raven is in the study weeping Hank is in the lab Erik is in Charles’s bedroom why is Erik in Charles’s bedroom Charles is everywhere

 

the bacon smells wonderful this woman weirds her out the wind rustles his red hair why did this have to happen again if only I could help fix it my head my head my head

 

“Erik,” Charles whispers pleads whimpers. “Leave, my friend. Please. Leave.”

 

seven miles away a man waits for his wife to give birth the cramps in her belly are waves of pain washing against her consciousness the baby is afraid it hasn’t the thoughts yet to understand what’s happening ten miles away a couple is making love so good so deep if only this could last

 

_You have to leave Erik leave now or it’ll be too late_

fifteen miles away a man is dying from cancer his body aflame with agony twenty miles away a man is brushing his daughter’s hair thinking about his dead wife and why can’t you see how beautiful our child is why can’t you see her grow up

 

_I’m so sorry Erik so sorry you should have left can’t stop this now I’m so sorry_

 

But Erik doesn’t leave. He can’t. He doesn’t know which pair of legs is his anymore, which hands to use, which eyes to see through.

 

He hears a moan of pain, and some part of him that’s holding on to sanity with all he’s got left realizes that it is he who moans.

 

He’s swept away in the torrents of Charles’s mind.

 

fifty miles away a man is drowning lungs bursting but can’t breathe can’t breathe seventy miles away a boy practices Bach on his cello the notes softly washing through his soul making everything bright and happy

 

a hundred miles away there’s been an accident and the girl is lying on the sidewalk bleeding out her spine crushed oh God this hurts two hundred miles away a professor of mathematics is solving the equation of his life and he’s so close now so close the solution just around the corner

 

three hundred miles away they’re burning a man alive just because he’s black and he can feel his own flesh sizzling boiling blackening in the heat

 

Emma Frost’s mind is blank thoughts a polite hum of general interest no pain no knowledge no fear but he can’t rest there can’t risk touching it and ruining the wonder of a fresh start he must control himself

 

_Erik are you still there are you still yourself_

_please be yourself please please survive this_

 

he’s black and brown and white and blue his hearts beat his lungs fill his stomachs rumble he’s afraid he’s hungry he’s wanting he’s needing he’s hoping

 

calm down find the middle

 

Calm down

 

he’s feeling lust sorrow fear worry longing regret pain so much pain everywhere pain why is there always pain

 

Go back go back go back

 

he’s being born and afraid he’s one and loved he’s two and starving he’s three and hiding he’s four and has never wanted for anything he’s five and afraid so afraid why can no one do what she does why does mother look at her that way why are her eyes yellow why is her skin blue

 

No that’s Raven you need someone else calm down calm down

 

You need … Charles

 

You need to find Charles

 

“I’m so sorry, Erik,” a voice whispers into one of his ears (He has ears? There’s someone else who’s not him?). “I can’t… I need to see this through now. You need to hold on, dear friend, please, just hold on…”

 

He’s six and her younger brother dies he’s seven and his mother throws him out of the house he’s eight and he kills his family he’s nine and she’s never known her father he’s ten and they won’t stop hurting him

 

No

 

No.

 

He’s five. He’s five and his father’s just died the maid tells him and she pities him pities the little boy who seems to understand too much for his age, he’s five and there are voices in his head, whispering secrets to him, he’s five and the world is a place full of monsters hiding behind the faces of people, he’s five and there’s always pain, somewhere, though his own skin has never felt it, he’s five and he doesn’t understand

 

He’s five and afraid to sleep because he can never be sure who he’ll be when he wakes up.

 

He’s five. His name is Charles Xavier.

 

He’s different. He’s always alone but being lonely is something he can’t even imagine. He’s five. His father just died.

 

Two pairs of eyes snap open to the silence of the bedroom.

 

The voices are still there, everywhere, but now there’s a barrier between us and them, a barrier made of very thin glass.

 

Their hearts beat the same rhythm. Their lungs fill and empty in sync. Their minds are tangled together like Sleeping Beauty’s hedge of thorns. But at least there’s a _they_ now. And a _we_.

 

xXx

 

Charles is five when his father dies and he can _feel_ his mother weeping. She’s at the other end of the house and there are walls and walls between them, but he can _feel_ her, as if she’s sitting right beside him.

 

No. As if she’s sitting inside his head. Her mourning seems like agony to Charles, so he reaches out with his tiny, fumbling, inexperienced mind, and tries to soothe her.

 

But he only adds horror to the pain.

 

_Go deeper, go on, you got better, you need to remember how to control this, remember_

 

He’s six when one of the gardeners has a heart attack. It’s quick and there isn’t much pain involved, but by then Charles’s mind has wrapped itself around the house and grounds and all its inhabitants, and he’s not just Charles, he’s everyone, always.

 

The sudden hole is like a tear in the fabric of his consciousness, and Charles nearly drowns in it before he can pull himself back. He gets a fever and almost dies.

 

His mother is in Paris at the time.

 

_But you survived you survived, you need to survive this, too_

 

Three months later a village girl is raped. Charles doesn’t speak for two weeks, and no one understands why he starts shaking whenever the milkman makes his delivery rounds.

 

_Not your pain, you’re stronger than this, remember Raven, remember the children, they need you_

 

On the morning of his first day of school, mother takes him aside and tells him, in a brittle voice layered with alcohol (always, always) to _behave_. There’s a terrible fear in her voice and Charles vows to make her proud, but of course he does everything wrong (always, always).

 

By the end of the day, he’s hailed as a child prodigy. He’s as knowledgeable as some of his teachers, and how couldn’t he be, since he takes the knowledge right out of their heads. He doesn’t know how not to.

 

That is the evening mother first slaps him.

 

He’s disturbed, because he knows from books that a mother isn’t supposed to do that, but he’s been slapped so many times, in so many bodies (the butler slaps the maid, the chauffeur slaps the car washer, cook slaps her cheating husband, and what’s an open handed slap against the _pain-burning-shame-fear-panic-hate_ of what the milkman did to Lisa?), that he doesn’t really mind.

 

If anything, the experience is a relief, because he finally understands pain, physically, how it happens and why it feels the way it does, and that makes him realize that there’s an inside and an outside to what he is.

 

Outside, he’s just one small boy with a red, burning cheek. Inside, he’s _everyone_.

 

That’s important to know, and so he smiles at his mother, and thanks her. She calls him a monster.

 

_Yes. Remember. There’s an inside and an outside. Pain is real, but it’s also relative. You can reach through it. Remember._

 

When he’s eight his mother marries again, a colleague of his father’s, and Charles isn’t sure what’s the more terrible thing: Kurt Marko’s mind, or that of his son Cain.

 

Charles runs away from home for the first time. Only to one of the guest houses, because it’s the middle of the winter and his legs aren’t as strong as Cain’s. But he’s learned a lot this past year and can hide himself from them as long as he’s awake.

 

They find him while he’s asleep. His room has a lock on the door now. It can only be opened from the outside.

 

Charles’s mind rushes over this period of time, refusing to acknowledge the way his young self painfully bounces from one Marko’s cruelty to the other’s like a bleeding little rubber ball. Later he will tell himself that he should be thankful to them, really, because his powers grow and grow in that year alone with them, his mother and the alcohol. They have to, if he wants to get through this.

 

 _You survived_. _You learned. You survived. Others lived through worse_

 

And then there’s Raven, bursting into his life with smiles and companionship and blue-skinned glory, Raven, whom he can talk to in her head and who will look at him with awe and delight, not with hate or fear.

 

Raven, who makes him use his powers in ways he swore he wouldn’t, but he has learned a lot, and cook will never suspect that the little blonde girl is not her own flesh and blood, cook will love the girl like no one in the big cold house up the hill ever could.

 

_That is the way you reach into their minds, just twist, just tweak, it’s so easy, but be careful, do not kill them_

And if Raven looks betrayed because he doesn’t really make her his sister, well, it’s better this way, with her tucked away safely in cook’s cottage during the night, never the wiser, never forced to understand why being a Xavier is not half as pleasant as it looks.

Raven doesn’t want him to read her mind anymore, so he has to learn not to, because she’s Raven and made him happy and deserves everything he could possibly give her, even if it hurts.

 

_They will never accept who you are, not deep down, but you have to understand them, they can’t help it_

 

He’s ten when the war ends and the soldiers come home. Ten, and despite all he’s seen, he can’t understand what he sees in their heads (the hunger and the pain and the fear and, _oh God_ , the camps). They open a hospital for war invalids two towns over and their thoughts and nightmares fill Charles’s every waking hour.

 

Living is difficult during that time. Smiling is impossible.

 

One of the officers treated there brings with him a man he’s befriended, a survivor of Buchenwald, and Charles can’t talk anymore, he can’t cry, he can’t sleep. He throws up every single thing he tries to eat.

 

He gets very good at shielding, very quickly.

 

_Yes, of course, that’s the way to do it, keep them out, protect yourself, just keep them out_

 

And then there’s fire, pain, fire, and Cain leaves the house and so does Kurt’s body, but the memory of his death never will, and Charles is alone with his mother and the bottles and the brittle silences between them.

 

And he’s fourteen now ( _a real man_ , his mother tells him unsteadily, _look at you_ ), and his tutors tell him he’ll be ready for university, soon, where would he like to go?

 

But before he’s free there’s one more thing for him to do.

 

His mother kills herself with alcohol, slowly, one intoxicated night a time. Charles is with her every step of the way.

 

_People die but you don’t. People hurt and you do, too, but it’s not your pain. You hurt and you must never let them know, because they can’t protect themselves the way you can_

He’s fifteen when he fumbles and it all collapses, down down down, months of work and control and discipline washed away by the hurricane of others’ thoughts in an instant.

 

He’s alone in the house and barely manages to scribble a note before he falls to his knees, hoping and praying that it will be Raven who finds him.

 

He’s unconscious when she does, and stays so for the two painful, endless days it takes to put it all back together again.

 

_Put it back together, just put it all back, that’s right, patience, you can do it_

He’s sixteen when he and Raven go to Oxford. Oxford, where only the voices of long dead authors whisper in his head, where the silence of libraries is punctuated by the well-ordered thoughts of learned men and the thoughtless joy of students who haven’t learned pain yet.

 

Charles’s control over his mind is less white gripped. He relaxes. He starts to fine tune. He trains himself to be pleasant company.

 

_Yes. Be strong. Be harmless. Never let your guard down. Never let them see what you really are._

 

He’s eighteen when he perfects his shields. He seals one last crack with the finest tendril of thought, and then, suddenly, he’s done.

 

For the first time in his life, Charles Xavier is alone in his head.

 

He cries for an hour.

 

Then he goes out and gets horribly drunk. Because he can, now. For the first time, he’s safe from others. And, even more important: for the first time, the others are safe from him.

 

Being drunk is a victory all in itself.

 

xXx

 

The memories stop. The voices and thoughts and foreign minds do not, never will as long as he’s alive, but he’s master now, not victim.

 

He’s Charles Xavier, and this isn’t an ocean that can drown him, it’s a canal he’s built for himself, a canal that will take him where he wants.

 

It’s not fortified, not properly. This won’t hold for long, he’s very aware of it, but it will hold just long enough. He’s Charles Xavier. He won’t forget again.

 

But there’s also Erik. Erik, scattered in his mind, brave, kind, reckless Erik ( _my friend)_ who didn’t want to leave him alone.

 

If a mind could weep, Charles’s would. If thoughts could tremble and shake, his would as he collects the parts of Erik that are fused with Charles, softly, softly, and puts them back together.

 

He’s infinitely more gentle, now that it’s Erik and not him, because Erik’s not used to this, Erik’s too good to be shattered, Erik has suffered too much pain in his life already.

 

Charles takes all the care he can to put Erik back just the way he was, every part handled with love, every thought with kindness, his own regrets and shames ( _ImsorryImsorryImsorry)_ woven through it all. __

And if the end result is more whole, more beautiful, shining brighter than Erik’s tortured soul used to be, Charles can’t help it, he can’t. This is the way he sees his friend, his brave, wonderful friend, who jumped after him into the dark waters of his mind to save him.

 

It’s not improvement.

 

Charles can’t make Erik a better man, because he already is.

 

xXx

 

Erik wakes abruptly, panting with shock, muscles knotted with tension, and in his mind the parting whisper of Charles Xavier:

 

_I am so, so sorry, my friend. You should be alright now, and I really need to rest and strengthen my shields. Please forgive me for what I’ve done._

 

Charles himself is stretched out on the bed, deeply asleep, his face calm yet still drawn. It takes Erik a few very embarrassing moments until he’s sorted out his limbs and scrambled to his feet, but then he leaves the room without a look back.

 

He knows Charles will be alright.

 

Erik takes a shower, very hot, and lets his hands glide over every part of his body, feeling the reassuring firmness of muscle, the warmth of skin, the raised paths of old scars.

 

Slowly, he remembers what it means to be himself (notCharles).

 

His head hurts, and some part of him is screaming over what just happened to him, but he’s good at suppressing and shutting away, so he does that instead.

 

In less than eight hours, they’ll board the Blackbird on their way to Cuba, he will finally kill Shaw, and all he can think of is Charles, Charles, Charles.

 

He dreams of him and the chaos of his mind until the alarm clock rouses him to the next morning.

 

To the day that might start World War III.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Assuming that the events of this story have thrown the last evening at the Mansion off course, I also assume that Hank has not brought the serum to Raven (who has other things to worry about and probably doesn’t feel as conflicted about her brother, either), nor has he taken it himself. He’s therefore still the same old Hank, but with full use of Beast’s abilities.
> 
> Concerning the number of soldiers aboard the ships: I’ve extrapolated the numbers (which are just an approximation) from the usual complements of the 1960s’ US and USSR destroyers and counted the number of ships shown in the film. Don’t quote my maths, though, I might be quite wrong.

  


They gather in the kitchen before dawn, heads downcast, the room filled with unspoken words. Is it the lingering connection to Charles's mind that makes Erik aware of what they are thinking? Or is it his memory that supplies the knowledge of how they feel?

 

It can’t be the latter. When Erik was their age, he hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. He just wanted to get the job done.

 

But this is wrong, the way they can’t look at each other, the way they accept those ridiculous suits without a word, the way they rest their hands on the house's furniture; lingering touches of goodbye.

 

They don’t believe they’ll live through this day. Not without their leader.

 

And Erik doesn’t know what to do. He is an expert at shutting his own fear away, at facing danger without the what-ifs of longing, but he’s never done it for someone else.

 

He checks their suits instead, carefully, tests the straps of Sean’s ‘wings’ (they still look ridiculous, but he’s learned enough over the past week not to mention that), the position of Alex’s breastplate. He nods approvingly towards Hank and lets his hand rest on Raven’s shoulder for a moment.

 

“Let’s head out while Moira gets the car,” he tells them, and the way they file out after him, like a line of bedraggled ducks, hurts parts of him he didn’t possess before yesterday.

 

_Damn you, Charles, what have you done to me?_

 

He is very aware of the gravel crunching beneath his feet, the rising sun slowly tinting their faces, caressing them with warmth. His body is humming in tune with the metal around him. There’s so much metal in these suits, and the thought reassures him a bit.

 

 _At least I can move them out of danger quickly_.

 

He doesn’t think that thought will serve to reassure _them_ , though.

 

Moira arrives with the car (limousine would be a more fitting description, but they’ve already started buying into the Xaviers’ tendency for understatement), steps out, and joins the waiting half circle. She’s calmer than the rest of them, but still she’s never done anything like this ( _How do I know this? Why do I care?_ ), and the thought of dying has always been an abstract one to her. Before today.

 

They look at him, all of them, expecting something, and Erik knows that Charles would give them exactly what they need right now. But he’s not Charles.

 

“Alright,” he therefore says, his voice a bit too rough, and Sean flinches. “I know you’re all frightened, and we’d all prefer Charles to be here, but remember that we trained for this. We have a plan, we have the element of surprise on our side, and beyond all that, we have a team. As long as you stick up for each other, you’ll be fine.”

 

It’s not great rhetoric, but at least it’s something, and he can see a little bit of courage returning to their faces, can see them standing that much straighter, when the sound of footsteps behind them, of gravel shifting and metal moving flushes adrenaline into Erik’s system – _no one knows we’re here, how did Shaw_ – and he whirls around a bit quicker than the rest of them, and there, standing opposite him, wearing a suit just like theirs…

 

Is Charles.

 

“You wouldn’t really leave without me, would you?” He asks, and smiles.

 

This is bravado at its worst – one look at his friend is enough to tell Erik that.

 

Charles is sweating, his skin looks sallow and his eyes are bloodshot. The smile is weak and threatens to slip away any moment. Charles really doesn’t look as if he should be on his feet, but Erik can _feel_ the children’s tension drain away, and for a moment he wonders whether Charles is projecting something to them or whether his mere presence is truly enough to cause this effect.

 

“Charles?” It’s Raven, voice wavering between hope and disbelief, one of her hands outstretched, but there’s something in Charles's posture that’s warning them not to get too close. “Should you really… You’re coming with us?”

 

“There’s no place I’d rather be,” he answers, but the smile slips again as he says it, turning into a grimace.

 

This is ridiculous. More than that, it’s impossible. Erik has been through just a fraction of what happened to Charles yesterday, but it was enough to make him tremble and shake through the night, bad enough hat he had to lock his feelings and fears away this morning, just as he did at the camps, to be ready for battle. And he’s not a telepath.

 

He knows how flimsy Charles's shields must still be, and there’s no way his friend could hope to pull this off, no way he can function under such stress…

 

“Charles, a word, please.”

 

Charles nods and turns back to the house, waiting for Erik to join him, and it’s obvious, the way he’s leaning back against the terrace’s balustrade for support, as if he can’t even manage standing on his own.

 

This is ridiculous.

 

Erik should take control right now and shut this down, but the only thing he can do as he steps up to his friend is marvel at how fragile Charles looks.

 

_Wasn’t he taller yesterday? How can something as vast as his mind fit into such a small, unassuming man?_

 

Charles looks at him with a good deal of bewilderment in his eyes, and Erik uncomfortably realizes that Charles can probably hear every single thing he’s thinking right now, given the state of his shielding.

 

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t help it,” Charles whispers, confirming that thought. Erik tries to remember all the things he’s been thinking during the past hour for a moment, then gives it up as a lost cause.

 

“I know,” he answers. “But you can’t be serious about coming with us, Charles. You can barely stand.”

 

“I won’t have to in the plane.”

 

“Don’t be an idiot.” The words are harsh, but Charles takes them the way they were meant, as concern, and just shakes his head again.

 

“Then tell me, my friend, how you intend to stop Shaw without me. Is there a single power in our arsenal capable of that except mine?”

 

Erik doesn’t need to give an answer, and Charles doesn’t need to read Erik’s mind. They have been over this a hundred times this past week, developing scenarios and plans and counter-measures to Shaw’s unique powers. They aren’t even quite sure if Charles will be strong enough to freeze Shaw or if his telepathy will just register as another form of energy, but it is the only option they could come up with.

 

“You’re exhausted. Your telepathy must be all over the place,” Erik tries, because it is the truth and not just something he invents to keep Charles safe. A telepath that collapses is no use to them at all.

 

“I’m not _that_ exhausted,” Charles's skin has a greenish tint and he doesn’t bother to hide how much he’s relying on the balustrade now. But still he scoffs and chuckles in that irritatingly British way of his. “And my physical state has nothing to do with my powers. I can do this. I have to.”

 

It is said with the same conviction Charles used to pull himself back together last night, with the same determination that made him hang on, and succeed, and give them both back their sanity, and for a moment, the urge to reach out and touch Charles, to soothe away the pain on his face is almost overwhelming.

 

“You could die,” Erik says, very quietly and very much afraid.

 

Charles meets his eyes unreservedly.

 

“So could you,” he says.

 

For a moment, Erik wonders if he should try to stop Charles (not that he’s sure he could, to be honest), but then decides that he has no reason to. At worst, they will simply have to knock Charles out again. At best, Charles will make the difference between stopping Shaw and World War III. 

 

Erik sternly reminds himself that worry about his friend’s safety and wellbeing isn’t a legitimate reason to risk this operation. He sees Charles's expression soften. Damn those telepathic abilities.

 

“When this is over, you and I will have a very long talk, Charles,” he says and turns back to the car, refusing to lend the other man a helping arm. If Charles can’t make it to the Blackbird on his own, he’ll just have to stay here (safely).

 

 

xXx

 

 

 

The children react to Charles's presence with delight, but instead of producing his usual inspirational drivel, Charles just offers weak nods all around, asks them to forgive him because he needs to _concentrate_ , presses himself into a corner of the limousine and closes his eyes.

 

His fingers seem to have taken permanent residence at his temple, and the way he doesn’t look at them makes quite clear that he’s not up to social interaction right now.

 

Not that this stops _them_ from looking at _him_ , and every time the eyes of a team member rest on him worriedly, Charles winces. The car suddenly doesn’t feel that large anymore.

 

The drive itself is long and arduous. Raven tries to question Charles about his mental state, but only receives monosyllabic answers. Sean tries to joke, but no one laughs. Alex tries to lighten to mood by riling up Hank, but the expression on Charles's face becomes so miserable that he falls silent rather abruptly.

 

So by the time they are safely strapped into place and the Blackbird has taken off, the atmosphere is more than a bit strained.

 

Erik still feels ridiculously helpless. Only now that Charles's part of their dynamic is missing does he realize how exceptionally well they have worked together.

 

Ever since Charles has pulled him out of the water, Erik has provided the drive, the ruthlessness, the determination behind this operation. When Shaw breached the CIA facility and killed Darwin, he gave them a purpose (“We can avenge him”) that they could fight for, a goal that united them.

 

Charles is the calming influence to Erik’s rage, the moral compass to his journey of revenge. But he is more than that. Where Erik provided a common purpose, Charles has created cohesion, where Erik has pressed forward, Charles allowed them to linger on the moment and make something of it.

 

Together, they are great leaders. Together, they have built something unique.

 

Erik alone would have turned them into weapons, but Charles has added pride to that, trust and belonging. He’s made them a family of sorts, given them confidence, support, a home, and they have clustered around him.

 

He’s their center where Erik is their spear point. But now that the center’s lost, the ranks are faltering.

 

And as to Erik – he is painfully aware that he’s not the same man he was yesterday. Not really. He is still Erik, of course, with all his memories and wounds and scars and anger, with his acerbic humour and his low tolerance for fools, and nothing has changed that he could point his finger at and blame it on Charles.

 

But at the same time, he’s more aware of the other mutants (and the one human) around him than he has been of anyone for a very long time. Perhaps it’s just Charles's view of the world lingering in his mind, but suddenly he understands. He cares. And he wants to make it better. He wants to help.

 

Which is ludicrous, because he’s got more important things to do with his time than calm frightened teenagers (which is Charles's job, anyway), and because stopping Shaw takes precedence over emotional needs, always.

 

Not to mention that he has no idea how to do it.

 

And then he has to learn very quickly, because once again everyone’s attention is resting on Charles, and as the Blackbird soars into the sky, the telepath’s eyes snap open. They are not entirely sane.

 

“Just because I’m not talking to you doesn’t mean I’m brain damaged,” he bits out. Once again Erik is rather thankful for Charles's usually mellow temper, because this display is just disturbing. “And I would very much thank you if you kept your thoughts about my pending death to yourselves. Count sheep or recite the table of elements, for God’s sake.”

 

Raven looks exceptionally young and helpless, and also more than a bit hurt.

 

“But, Charles, I…”

 

“Yes, I know, Raven, more intimately than I would wish, actually, but believe it or not, I’m here to stop Shaw, not cater to your emotional needs, and I can’t do both in my current state. So pull yourself together, please.”

 

Erik doesn’t need Charles's powers to know what Raven is thinking – it’s written quite clearly on her face.

 

She’s hurt and confused, but above all she’s worried, because this is her brother, whom she knows better than anyone else, and her brother would never act this way. Charles isn’t Charles right now. Something is wrong.

 

“No, I’m not well, Raven, and I know it, but I’m not up to a detailed discussion of my mental state, either,” Charles snaps, fingers drilling into his temple. “Thank you Alex for pointing out the unflattering colour of my skin, yes, Sean, every mother would be worried if their son called her at six a.m. for no reason other than to tell her he loves themher and, I swear, Hank, if you think about kissing my sister one more time, I will…”

 

“Right,” Erik interrupts him in midsentence. “This is what we’ll do. I’ll go over the information I have on Shaw and his team again, and you will all listen to me carefully. I want your full concentration on this. No stray thoughts and no diversions, or those metal seat belts will get very uncomfortable very quickly. Do you understand?”

 

It’s easier after that. Charles is still twitching and his face looks more haggard by the minute, but he recovers enough to send Erik a thankful nod. Erik may not be good at calming minds, but he can certainly frighten them into submission.

 

xXx

 

They know they’ve reached the position of the fleets before Hank can tell them, because Charles suddenly sits up straight, and tilts his head sideways, and presses his lips together to stifle a painful moan.

 

“3538 men on those ships, and every single one’s frightened for his life,” he whispers.

 

Before yesterday, Erik would have been awed by the precision of Charles's power, but now he knows what it feels like to have that many voices in his mind, and he suppresses a shudder.

 

A glance out of the window shows them the ships these voices stem from, the lines drawn on water by powerful humans. Of the mutants that have caused all this, however, there is no sign.

 

Charles gives himself a shake and sits up even straighter, straining forward as if towards an invisible goal.

 

“Right,” he says quickly, feverishly. “Right, what do we have here. Destroyers, Cruisers… the cargo ship _Aral Sea_ … yes, thank you Moira, I’m quite aware what an embargo line entails… but there’s just one person aboard… right… they’re all dead, it’s just Shaw’s teleport… the Americans aren’t buying the Russians’ story, so I’d better … yes, Commander, be so kind as to press that button… evasive maneuver, Hank, there’s a rocket coming this way any moment now… but still no sign of Shaw… yes, there goes the _Aral Sea…”_

 

Charles's eyes are closed, clenched together in the effort of keeping atop the situation, so he can’t really see their disbelieving looks and the awe that is turning to fear slowly but steadily.

 

Below them, fire blooms on the water as Charles's mind destroys a ship that could have determined their future, and he could just as easily have destroyed the Russians or the Americans or them.

 

Or the world.

 

This is true power, Erik thinks, invisible and yet displayed right before their eyes, and Charles isn’t even bothering to look at what he wrought, is already busy relaying courses and tactics and orders to them, because nothing is secret from him, nothing is safe.

 

Moira has stopped even pretending to be in control of this situation, she is just staring at Charles like the rest of them, and thank God that at least Hank is concentrating on what he is supposed to do, though Erik isn’t sure if that matters at all or if Charles would just slip into Hank’s head and take over piloting with the same ease he’s taken over the rest of the conflict.

 

“No signs of the other mutants… there must be some kind of shield on the submarine, or perhaps Frost has put a permanent shield on them … she’s quite good at shielding, or at least she used to be…”

 

Erik is aware that Charles is not talking to them at all right now, although words and sentences pour forth at an alarming rate. They have ceased to exist in his mind as separate beings, and as he continues to simply snatch information from their heads and use it to further his trail of thought, as he does the same with the Russian and American Captain and every single soldier aboard the ships, Erik realizes that Charles's shields are barely shielding at all.

 

They are still no more than that single barrier of glass keeping him separate, and that is not enough to make him understand them as individuals that should be beyond his grasp. They are merely threads in his net of information, extensions of his senses, and in the urgency of the moment he uses them ruthlessly.

 

“The military have no location for them, either… though one of the young officers picked up a blip on the radar half an hour ago… might be his submarine… but the sonars of the ships aren’t fine tuned enough to place him… right you are, Hank, but Moira can’t find anything in the readings… we’d need sonar… brilliant idea, Sean, and no, Hank, I can’t simply sense for Shaw, not with his helmet on…”

 

The others are staring at each other, now, overwhelmed by Charles's monologue that is interspersed with thoughts they haven’t even formulated yet, and completely unaware that the fact Charles is talking, is actually using his mouth instead of projecting directly into all of their minds is the biggest sign of how very much in control their telepath still is.

 

Erik remembers the chaos of thoughts and emotions, and his respect for Charles deepens, even as Charles gives an abrupt and very girlish giggle.

 

“Sorry, sorry… one of the midshipmen is a mean composer of limericks… I wonder why the Russian Captain hopes they’ll fail, though… oh, poor man, and such a beautiful girl it was…”

 

“Charles,” Erik says, both to stop him from spiraling away from the problem at hand and to regain control over the situation. “Calm yourself. You’re frightening the children.”

 

The children are, in fact, frightened enough to not even protest that they’re fully grown, thank you very much.

 

With obvious effort, Charles rips himself away from the cacophony of minds. He opens his eyes again.

 

“Sorry, everyone,” he says. “Are you ready, Sean?”

 

Sean doesn’t look ready.

 

He looks as if he wants to run away and hide from the telepath, and he actually steps towards Erik, as if the notion of being thrown out of the airplane is less worrying than Charles's manic monologue, but he does his bit, and as soon as he hits the water Charles twitches again. He probably isn’t even aware that he projects Shaw’s location into all their minds, that he directs Hank to lower the landing gears and nudges Erik towards them.

 

And then Erik is lifting a submarine, a _submarine_ , and it’s so exhilarating and frightening and bloody exhausting that he doesn’t even notice Riptide attacking them until the mutant suddenly slumps over and threatens to slide off the ship’s side.

 

“Catch him, Erik, there’s a good chap,” Charles shouts over the roaring wind. “We don’t want him plummeting to his death, do we?”

 

All in all, it’s rather anticlimactic.

 

But that will change.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

The moment the Blackbird has settled down on the beach, opposite to the submarine that is squatting on the ground like a huge, stranded whale, Erik is at Charles’ side.

 

It’s not a moment too soon, either, because Charles sways and almost goes down, only Erik’s arm preventing him from painful contact with the plane’s hull.

 

“Are you alright?” Erik asks urgently, because Shaw’s right there in front of him, in a ship made of metal, but he will not, _cannot_ leave before he’s sure that Charles will be well.

 

Charles nods, but his hand trembles as he grips Erik’s arm to steady himself.

 

“It seems you were right, my friend,” he says weakly. “Standing is not really an option right now.”

 

“Then sit down,” Erik urges, and it occurs to him how ludicrous they must sound. “Or do you have to get closer to Shaw?”

 

Charles’ face is pale with exhaustion, his lips are almost white, but the way he shakes his head leaves no room for doubt.

 

“There is a void within the submarine,” he says quietly. “My mind cannot penetrate it, and since I can’t sense Shaw, either, we must assume he’s in there. Judging from the minds of his fellow mutants, Shaw is using the nuclear device aboard to turn himself into an atomic bomb. You have to open that void up for me, Erik, or I won’t be able to stop him, but I’ll be with you every step of the way. If you let me.”

 

Erik leads him over to his seat, settles him down, then gestures for Sean, Alex and Hank to take on Shaw’s remaining mutants, and for Moira and Raven to stay right where they are.

 

“Don’t let him out of your sight,” he orders, although he knows that Raven would never dream of it anyway.

 

Only then does he let go of Charles, one hand lingering on his shoulder for a moment.

 

“Get in, then,” he says, pointing at his own head, and it is the most curious experience to feel Charles slip into his mind, warm him from the inside, fill all his cracks and emptiness.

 

 _Did you change me, last night?_ He asks silently while he exits the plane, rushes towards the submarine, tears a hole into the boat’s hull. _Has some of your power bled over to me, or why is your presence in my mind so much stronger now?_

 

_It isn’t, my friend._

 

Charles’ voice is in his head, echoing in his ears, but it is more that, Erik realizes. It is as if Erik’s mind recognizes Charles, mends the bindings that were broken last night, welcomes the other man home.

 

_The only difference is that you feel the connection now, too._

 

Erik has entered the submarine, and it is a heady feeling, being completely encased by metal, encasing Charles’ mind in turn. Dimly, he is aware that a connection as close as this would have frightened him senseless before last night. He’s not the sort of man that entrusts himself to others. But the worst has already happened, he’s been lost in Charles’ mind, and Charles has put him back together with more love and care than Erik has ever felt since that first, terrible bullet.

 

Now there’s no fear, no hesitation, only the rush of confidence Charles’ presence brings with him, the complex build-up of power between them.

 

 _Unstoppable,_ he thinks as he rips doors from their hinges and crosses lavishly decorated rooms, as he disengages the nuclear reactor, while Charles centres him easily in that in-between state of rage and serenity. _Together we are unstoppable._

He feels Charles’ laughter echo through his head like silver bells.

 

Then he’s reached the void, a curiously blank space in their minds that has no visible representation in the real world, and Erik’s panic rushes up, threatening to consume him, because this can’t be happening, Shaw can’t have evaded him again, and even Charles’ power is barely enough to keep him calm.

 

A sliding sound behind him, and Erik whirls around, the metal floor vibrating in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

 

He meets Shaw’s eyes. They are very cold, and very blue.

 

 _I can’t feel him, Erik_ , Charles whispers, his voice laced with worry. _Something is stopping me! I can’t read his mind! I can’t…_

 

Erik reaches out with his senses for the helmet Shaw is wearing and finds it strangely dead to his power. He can’t simply lift it off his head, but then he hasn’t expected that to work – Shaw is too clever for it.

 

_We’ll think of something, Charles._

 

“Erik. What a pleasant surprise,” Shaw says. “So good to see you again.”

 

Suddenly, Erik is flooded with anger, red hot, impotent fury, but surprisingly he finds that it doesn’t belong to him. It’s Charles’.

 

 _What you could have been to them_ , Charles is thinking, no, _screaming_ silently at Shaw. _You could have saved them, all of them, Emma and Erik and the rest, and you could have made a difference, but you hurt them, you ruined them, you made the world a darker place, you leech, and you had no right to abuse your power, to squander your gift, and I would…_

_Calm your mind, Charles,_ Erik thinks frantically, because his head hurts from all the anger and it worries him a bit, to be honest. He never thought Charles had this in him, this dark, passionate rage, so frighteningly similar to what Erik feels. Charles is supposed to be better than that.

 

And where is his own anger? He looks at Shaw, and instead of the monster he’s been hunting most of his life, there is just this man, slender, dressed like a playboy, wearing a funny helmet.

 

There’s hate in Erik, certainly, but it’s a clinical, almost objective hate, and the only thing he can think is _I’ll end you_ , and _I’ve wasted too much time on you_ , and _That helmet looks really ludicrous._

 

 _What did Charles_ do _to me, to change me so?_

But deep inside he knows that the reasons for this change did not come from Charles. Or at least not in the ways that matter.

“May I ask you something?” Shaw continues, beckoning for Erik to follow him back into the reactor room. Erik doesn’t comply, however, because in his head Charles and he are having a heated discussion about traps and risks and necessities, and Erik can’t win the argument and walk at the same time, he’s no telepath, after all.

 

“Why are you on their side? Why fight for a doomed race who’ll hunt us down as soon as they realize their reign is coming to an end?”

 

So Shaw is still trying to recruit him? Seriously?

 

 _We can use this. I can get at him from behind, surprise him,_ Erik thinks at Charles, and in the space of a heartbeat a plan is forming between them. Charles doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t stop Erik as he follows Shaw into the mirror room.

 

 _You will just have to trust me, my friend_ , Erik thinks as the door closes behind him.

 

“I’m sorry for what happened in the camps. I truly am. But everything I did I did for you,” Shaw says.

 

And Erik should be outraged, he knows he should, but he can barely bring himself to listen to him, can barely concentrate on this moment that should have been the culmination of all his plans.

 

Because Charles’ presence in his mind has vanished.

 

Erik is all alone inside his head, Charles gone without an echo remaining, and it’s such an empty, terrible feeling that Erik reaches out without even knowing, reaches for the metal that surrounds this void, bringing it down on them, down, down, down.

 

Glass screeches, mirrors splinter, and there is Charles, surging back into him with the strength of relief.

 

_Erik, thank God! But I still can’t read his mind. You need to get that helmet off him…_

_Working on it, Charles, working on it,_ he thinks grimly, brings down another metal beam and pushes it against Shaw, only for his power to be swatted away like a fly.

 

“You’ve come a long way from bending gates. I’m so proud of you. And you’ve just started to scratch the surface. Just think how much further we could go, me and you,” Shaw whispers, his eyes beckoning greedily.

 

 _You have no idea what pride and strength are_ , Erik thinks. _But I do, now._

 

And he remembers a younger Charles from the memories they shared just last night, a fifteen-year-old Charles at the bedside of his dying mother, who has done nothing but rage at him these past five years, but still this boy is sitting with her hour after hour, holding her hand while she slips away, painfully aware of all the mistakes he’s made and yet oblivious to everything that was owed to him and never given.

 

That memory holds a power and clarity that humbles Erik, that makes him want to honour his friend’s quiet strength, and he can’t help but think that, yes, he has come a long way, further than Shaw could ever imagine.

 

“I want to help you,” Shaw whispers, close enough to touch, if only Erik wasn’t pinned to the wall by a metal beam. That Shaw dares this, dares trap him with his very own element, makes Erik almost angry enough to forget about their plan and just scream, rage, fight with everything he has. But Charles holds him back, sending waves of calm into his mind, and it is just enough to endure Shaw’s recruitment speech as long as he has to.

 

“This is our time. Our Age. We are the future of the human race. You and me, son. This world could be ours.”

 

For a moment, Erik thinks about this seriously, wondering what would happen to him if he agreed and gave in to this man. He can still feel the impulse, buried deep inside him, the echo of a young, frightened boy who wants to please desperately, willing to do anything to make the pain stop.

 

It hurts to remember, but that boy is a part of Erik, and he deserves to be acknowledged.

 

“Everything you did made me stronger, made me the weapon I am today,” he therefore whispers, and the way Shaw’s face lightens up with self righteous satisfaction makes him want to vomit. “It’s the truth. I’ve known it all along. You are my creator.”

 

He does not spare a look for the metal cable that is sneaking up behind Shaw’s back, doesn’t have to, because he can feel it coming closer, inching its way towards the helmet centimetre by centimetre. He keeps his eyes on Shaw, and only when it almost touches Shaw’s head does he continue.

 

“But I have changed, and you have no idea what I am capable of anymore, Shaw.”

 

The cable snaps forward.

 

_Now, Charles!_

 

With an effort that sets Erik’s teeth on edge, Charles reaches out and _grabs_ control from Shaw, freezes his body and clamps down on his mutant power.

 

_I’ve got him! We have him, Erik! You’ve done it!_

 

_Yes. Thanks to you, my friend._

 

Erik frees himself from the metal that has trapped him, steps around his old tormentor and up close to him.

 

And looks at the frozen face of Sebastian Shaw, truly looks for the first time, seeing not the monster of his nightmares, not the all-powerful Doktor, but just another mutant, just another man.

 

He can feel Shaw losing his hold over him, can feel the obsession slipping away, the iron bands that bound his chest, chaining him to this man, bursting and clattering to his feet.

 

Because Shaw may be his creator, but Charles is too, now.

 

Shaw may have forged him in blood and pain and rage, taking from him everything he loved and believed in, offering back nothing but an illusion of strength and a blazing, all-consuming hate.

 

But Charles has re-forged him with kindness and trust and an admiration Erik can never hope to earn, and he has opened his doors to him and given Erik friends and a home and things to live for.

 

So maybe Erik is Shaw’s creature.

 

But he has more than one maker, has a choice, and if Erik has to choose his Frankenstein, it will always be Charles.

 

He lets the helmet slip from the cable’s grip. It thumps to the ground and is easily crushed by a steel plate.

 

Charles’ relief and gratefulness burn brightly in his mind.

 

But there is still something he has to do.

 

“I’m sorry, Charles,” he whispers, because he knows this will pain his friend, and he can’t bear to do that within his head. “But he killed my mother, and he hurt you. This has to stop here. I cannot risk him destroying what I love ever again.”

 

Charles’ emotions flare up at that, nearly blinding Erik for a moment with their intensity. There is regret, and protest, and disbelief, and perhaps a hint of betrayal, but beyond all that there is sorrow, an all-encompassing grief.

 

Charles is mourning Erik’s mother, Erik’s youth, this wasteful violence and all the missed chances. He is mourning Shaw, what he did to Erik, Frost, all of them, but especially to himself (and only Charles could grieve for a monster with such honest abandon).

 

Then the feelings abate, and so does Charles’ presence in Erik’s mind, until the only thing Erik can feel is acceptance, and exhaustion, and muted regret.

 

Charles won’t stop him.

 

And so Erik takes the Reichsmark he’s carried with him all these years, floats it into the air.

 

And pushes it through Shaw’s skull into his brain.

 

He has expected the resistance, has imagined how it will feel to kill a man slowly, to cause excruciating pain, to watch and keep pushing and show no mercy in the face of suffering.

 

What he hasn’t expected is Charles’ scream.

 

It is both physical and mental, reverberating in his head and rattling through his bones, and Erik’s grasp on the coin slips, threatens to fail.

 

 _Charles?_ He thinks frantically, wondering if one of Shaw’s mutants has made his way into the Blackbird. _What is happening to you? Charles?_

 

And then he meets Shaw’s eyes and sees Charles reflected in them. And understands: It might be Charles that is screaming, but the pain belongs to Shaw, and in enforcing his revenge, he has made his friend endure it alongside his enemy.

 

He pushes the coin through as quickly as he can, not caring to prolong it. Shaw is dead anyway, and what matters now is that Charles can let go as soon as possible.

 

But it’s too late. Charles’ presence in his mind is dwindling, slipping away, losing coherence and control. Erik tries to hold onto him, to lend him his strength, to anchor him.

 

But he doesn’t know how to. Their connection thins, splinters, and there is only time for one thought:

 

 _This is my fault. I did this to him_.

 

Erik can feel Charles’ flimsy shields shatter anew.

 

Some part of Erik shatters right along with them.

 

xXx

 

Erik grabs Shaw’s body by the metal in his clothes and drags him along, but it’s just an afterthought. Most of his mind and power are fixed on the need to get out of the submarine, back to the Blackbird. To Charles.

 

He isn’t even surprised when he finds that he’s floating, propelled forward by the metal of the ship.

 

 _I should be feeling different,_ he thinks, just as absently. _Triumphant. Free._

 

But all he feels is worry and fear. All he hears is Charles’ pain.

 

He emerges from the submarine in flight, and both his allies and Shaw’s compatriots look up with at him with awe. He relinquishes his hold on the body and Shaw drops to the ground like a puppet without strings. Erik doesn’t watch him fall, his attention fixed on his friend.

 

Charles is on his feet, somehow, stumbling away from the Blackbird, supported by both Raven and Moira. Their eyes meet over the distance, and Erik flinches as he remembers that scream.

 

 _Are you alright_? He calls for him silently and sees Charles twitch, but there’s no answer, and as he reaches out for his friend’s mind, all he encounters is chaos and pain and overwhelming exhaustion. It nearly drives him to his knees.

 

“Are you alright, Charles?” He repeats out loud, but there’s no answer to that, either.

 

The other mutants are staring at them, their friends worried, Shaw’s followers afraid of what they are going to do to them. Erik doesn’t spare a glance at them. He’s not interested in recruiting right now.

 

But then a new feeling enters the maelstrom of emotions that is the entangled mess of their minds: The taste of metal, of cannons and rockets, ready to launch. Swivelling in their direction.

 

“No,” Erik whispers.

 

It’s a testament to the unnatural silence around them that every single person on the beach can hear him.

 

“They are going to kill us. After we saved their lives. I knew it, Charles, I told you they couldn’t be trusted…”

 

Charles sways, his whole body shaking. There’s a terrible expression on his face, heartbreak and tiredness and bone-deep pain, but still he is freeing himself from Raven’s grasp and turning towards the ships, blue eyes widening desperately as he finds confirmation for Erik’s words in the human minds aboard them.

 

“No…” he whispers, but the rest of that sentence dies along with their hopes for a better future.

 

The ships fire. The rockets fly.

 

And Charles, no need for a finger on his temple now that his shields and focus are burned away to nothing, Charles changes. The chaos in his mind tightens, shifts, and suddenly it’s all new, brighter and more powerful and brimming with intent, and Erik realizes that Charles isn’t even _trying_ to shield anymore.

 

Instead, he opens himself up completely, surrendering to the powers he has kept locked away for most of his life, inviting them in, letting them take over.

 

“No,” Erik whispers. “No, Charles, don’t do this, this could kill you, please…”

 

But Charles just raises his hands slightly, the frail gesture of a frail human, meets Erik’s frightened gaze, and smiles.

 

“Don’t worry, my friend,” he whispers. “I won’t let them hurt us. _Alles ist gut_.”

 

He closes his eyes.

 

Erik’s power stops the rockets in midair, but it is not Erik who wields it.

 

Charles is everywhere, in all of them, his power singing in the air, and Erik can almost see the threads of their minds now, bridging the gaps between them and the ships, spanning a net that encompasses all and still reaches beyond them, across the ocean and over the horizon.

 

They are all Charles now. And Charles is every single one of them.

 

From the shining orb of power that is the centre of it all, images begin to form and rise to the surface of their minds, each of them exquisitely clear and yet but a pearl on an endless chain, connecting and linking until everything around them is sound, and colour, and happiness:

 

Raven, barely seven and very blue, smiling with the delight of having finally found a friend.

 

Hank, radiating joy as they admire his feet and do not shun him.

 

Sean, the thrill of first flight a jubilant cry of freedom.

 

Alex, pure relief that he will never, ever have to hurt anyone again.

 

And Erik himself, amazement and disbelief rocking through him as he looks into those blue eyes for the first time and hears those words ( _You are not alone_ ).

 

They are memories, imprints of their emotions, but they are also more than that, more intense than anything Erik has experienced before.

 

These images capture and condense the essence of what they are, and they are each of them laid bare in these short, exquisite moments, raw in a way no human being could ever see another, impossible to misunderstand in their intentions and beliefs.

 

They are beautiful, and incredibly, impossibly true.

 

And Erik understands: Charles has collected them, his friends, his family, all their moments of joy and happiness, he has tucked them away as treasures in the vast storerooms of his minds.

 

They are seeds of the things to come that he now throws out to the humans, hoping for them to take hold and grow, and Erik can feel them too, as soon as he thinks of them, all those soldiers on all those ships, awed by what they never knew existed and overwhelmed by the humanity of the mutants.

 

For one moment, they all bask in the peace of their common nature.

 

Then, Charles’ smile fades. The sky darkens. There is the gate again, Erik’s panicked struggle to open it, the bullet that strikes his mother, Raven’s shame, Hank’s resignation, Alex’ isolation, Erik’s and Charles’ desperate fight to stop Shaw, to save the men on the ships and so much more (the pain of Shaw’s death _necessarybutsowastefulwhydowehavetodothistoeachother,_ a markedly faint echo, but the shock of it sears through Erik’s minds and oh, Charles, was it really that bad? Did I do that to you?).

 

And then Charles’ voice, thundering across the sea:

 

_These are your brothers and your sisters. These are your children. They saved your lives, and you will kill them for it?_

The rockets hold still. The sky is heavy with Charles’ grief.

 

And Erik can see new faces now, human faces, the faces of men and women, of children, of soldiers and politicians (He’s reaching out _that_ far? Erik thinks in disbelief), faces filled with the horrified realization not of the mutant danger, but of their kinship. Of what they, the humans, were willing to do.

 

They truly see each other here, over the distance of miles and oceans, fused together by one single, endless mind that leaves no room for lies, or doubt, or subterfuge.

 

It’s as if they are looking into a mirror. There’s no place left for hate.

 

_Do you truly want to kill us?_

Charles’ voice again, no thunder this time but a soft rain of grief and resignation. He’s mourning for all of them, for all the innocents lost, making no difference between mutants and humans, between his friends and the world and himself (and for the first time Erik truly understands that he can’t. All the world is in his head. How could Charles ever choose?).

 

The question grips them all.

 

It is just this. A question.

 

There’s no suggestion behind it, no pull what to decide. Charles has shown them the truth, leaving them to make of it what they want. But Erik can read the same answer to his question seared into a thousand faces and minds:

 

_No. We never wanted this!_

And then, just like that, Charles lets them go.

 

xXx

 

As overwhelming as the chorus of their minds might have been, the silence after is worse.

 

Rockets explode like fireworks, harmless and high up in the air.

 

Erik cannot feel them anymore, the mutants or the humans, and for the first time in his life he wants to reach out and reconnect. It feels so lonely inside his mind.

 

The feeling of their fusion is addictive, but it’s already fading, and he can see the loss on all the faces around him.

 

For one single moment, everything was well.

 

But then Charles sighs softly, drops to his knees and tilts sideways until his face hits the sandy beach.

 

He lies very still.

 

There is only silence.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shaw’s dialogue is taken from the movie. No copyright infringement is intended.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

_After:_

For five days Charles doesn’t speak, nor wake up, nor even move.

 

For five days he is left alone except for Raven’s short visits when she changes his IV-drip and does the necessary nursing. Raven insists. She says he’d want it that way, and that he’ll be fine, not to worry, he just needs a bit of time. But she is fraying around the edges.

 

For five days they tiptoe around the house, so numb with the memory of Charles’s pain and power that not even the official government appreciation of their efforts manages to cheer them up.

 

It seems that in fusing them together as he did, Charles has singlehandedly managed what he’d dreamed for and what Erik has always thought impossible. In that moment, he has indeed touched the minds of humans all over the country, among them the President himself, more of them and further away than should have been possible even for Charles, and the experience has been as memorable for the humans as it was for the mutants.

 

Moira has been appointed as the official liaison between mutants and the government, and her first act has been to demand explicit inclusion of their kind in both the Constitution and the Declaration of Human Rights. She’s sending them daily updates from her new office in Washington.

 

Kennedy has issued a statement in which he calls the mutants _friends_ and _fellow-citizens_ , and _thanks them_ for defending their country in its darkest hour. The speech touches on the sacrifices they willingly made and stresses their common nature. It does not mention identification, or control, or danger _._ Not with a single word.

 

He calls for a dialogue between mutants and humans, to discuss peaceful co-habitation and the many ways they can help each other.

 

He’s invited them to the _White House_.

 

And Charles is not conscious to witness it.

 

For five days, Erik is consumed with guilt. He knows he has caused this, and he knows he can probably never make up for it. He wouldn’t even know where to start.

 

Even Raven begins to look as if she’s slowly losing hope.

 

And then, on the sixth day, as they’re making their way to the kitchen for breakfast, Charles is suddenly there, sauntering down the stairs, clean-shaven and groomed to perfection, his hands in the pockets of his soft grey flannel trousers.

 

Looking as if he’s never had a care in the world.

 

He’s _whistling_.

 

“Good morning,” he calls out cheerfully, as if it was just any morning. “Is that breakfast I smell? Excellent, I’m positively famished!”

 

They can only stare at him.

 

He stares back, and for a moment there’s actual confusion on his face.

 

Then he lowers his eyes, and twitches a bit, and is that an honest-to-God blush tingeing his cheekbones?

 

He looks uncomfortable with all the attention, as if the earth and sky hadn’t listened to him six days ago, and bowed to his wishes.

 

“Look” he says sheepishly. “I realize that I caused a few breaches of privacy this past week, and I can’t say how much I regret that, but I have every hope that it won’t happen again, so if you’d accept my apology…”

 

Raven barrels into him so hard that he nearly loses his balance. She holds on for dear life and presses her face into his shirt, but they can still hear her.

 

“Shut up, Charles,” she says very clearly.

 

Erik can only agree with her.

 

Charles is every inch the bewildered professor now, and the way he pats her back and presses a kiss into her hair is endearingly helpless.

 

“I’m alright, Raven,” he says. “I promise. Not a scratch on me, see?”

 

That claim is so outrageous that Raven actually reaches out and punches him in the shoulder.

 

“Ouch!” Charles complains, sincerely shocked.

 

“You nearly died!” She cries out, and he has the gall to scoff at that.

 

“Nonsense, dear girl,” he protests. “I was perfectly safe the whole time. I’m just a little hungry. So if we could go and have breakfast, please? Now?

 

They trail after him in stunned silence, unable to believe that this is it and he’ll act as if nothing at all happened.

 

But it seems that is exactly what he’s going to do.

 

“This looks marvellous,” Charles exclaims as sets eyes on the laid table, settles himself at his usual place and reaches for toast and eggs.

 

They join him slowly, and by general assent their own breakfast seems to hold very little interest in comparison to watching Charles Xavier eat truly impressive amounts of scrambled eggs.

 

They don’t speak, or, as Erik corrects himself almost automatically, they don’t speak out loud. Charles is probably listening to a tumult of thoughts right now.

 

But he barely acknowledges them until he’s drained his second cup of coffee and reaches for a cup and saucer and the obligatory china teapot instead.

 

Then he looks up from the table, blue eyes glittering with amusement (oh yes, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing), and meets their eyes in turn.

 

“You have questions, I presume,” he offers, and that is all they need.

 

There is an initial barrage from the younger team members, which includes questions about his health, exclamations of awe and the request “not to explode our heads, please” (the last one from Sean, naturally). But it is Hank who finally asks the most important question, and for once the other team members willingly fall into line.

 

“Professor,” Hank says slowly. His stutter has vanished entirely these past days, but he can’t quite meet Charles’s eyes. Erik hopes it is respect that stops him, not fear. “Were you aware that you could…”

 

_Crush us all in your hands_ , his face says. _Wield the powers of a god. Change the world._

 

But Hank isn’t a man of grand words, so he ends the sentence rather weakly with “…do that?”

 

Charles crosses his legs, cradles the teacup in his hands, and shakes his head.

 

“Not entirely,” he answers, and what kind of answer is that, Erik wonders.

 

_Could you be any_ less _clear_? He asks silently, waiting for a smile, a silent reply, any sort of reaction. But Charles doesn’t even blink, and Erik realizes that his shields must be as high as they can get. Charles cannot hear him right now, and to his surprise Erik finds that this fact disappoints him.

 

But he still gets his wish. Charles sighs and continues.

 

“I have always known that considerable parts of my power went into shielding myself. I’ve never experimented with expanding myself the way I did, and I am honestly as surprised by the results as you are, although I assume your headaches weren’t quite as bad as mine, nor that you’ve been out of it as long – how long _have_ I been asleep, by the way?”

 

“Five days,” Raven answers quietly. She cannot meet his eyes.

 

Charles looks a bit shocked.

 

“Dear God,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry, Raven, you must have been terribly worried.”

 

Terribly worried doesn’t even come close to how Raven’s been these past days, nor any of them, to tell the truth, and from the look on his face Charles is very aware of that. For a moment, his chipper surface cracks a bit; he reaches up to rub his temples, brush his hair back, and suddenly looks old and worn. But then he pulls himself together and is all puppy-enthusiasm again.

 

“But things are going well on the mutant publicity front, I gather?” He asks, sips his tea and grimaces with revulsion.

 

“Honestly,” he complains, jumping from his chair and rooting through the kitchen cupboards. “I am asleep for a few days and the standards of civilization slip to unacceptable levels in this house. Who brewed this tea? And where is the marmalade?”

 

“The President is calling us _heroes_ , man!” Alex says, and Charles chuckles heartily.

 

“He is, isn’t he?” He asks, visibly chuffed. “The Saviours of America – not a title I would have chosen for myself, but what can you do.”

 

Raven doesn’t say anything. She just gets up, walks over to one of the cupboards and hands Charles the marmalade. He answers this gesture of sisterly affection with a warm hug and a kiss on the side of her head, unscrews the jar and begins spreading obscene amounts of _Fruity Orange_ over his toast.

 

“One thing I’ll say about heretofore unheard of acts of telepathy,” he comments absently. “They create quite the appetite.”

 

Sean and Alex laugh at that, Raven walks by and punches him again, but lightly, and even Hank relaxes enough to smile.

 

Erik is still staring.

 

_That’s it?_ He thinks. _That can’t be it. They won’t just accept a half-cocked explanation and a joke and forget about everything that happened. It’s just not possible, not even when a telepath is involved._

 

But Charles keeps teasing Raven and asking Hank about his progress on the Cerebro plans and telling Sean that he had this groovy new idea how to use his powers.

 

He just keeps talking and smiling and chuckling and eating, and by his third cup of tea, no one seems to remember that he shaped a necklace out of their minds and saved the world with it.

 

He’s just good old Charles, after all. Nothing to see, here.

 

Nothing at all.

 

 

xXx

 

 

“I won’t let you get away with it that easily,” Erik tells Charles later, as he confronts him in his study.

 

Charles sighs and raises his hands in a gesture of apology.

 

“I am truly sorry that I used your powers without your consent, Erik,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have. In fact, I’m sorry about a lot of things.  I lost control. I promise it won’t happen again.”

 

Erik just stares at him in disbelief, just as he has that morning.

 

“Do you think that’s funny?” He demands.

 

Charles’s face falls.

 

“No, of course not,” he hastens to answer. “I can only imagine how uncomfortable and invasive that must have been, and after I promised you to stay out of your head… I took a decision from you that you should have made yourself. I am truly apologetic, I assure you.”

 

He chances a smile, just a small one, but he doesn’t look up to meet Erik’s eyes.

 

Who suddenly, shockingly, understands.

 

“You aren’t joking,” he states flatly. “You’re serious.”

 

Now Charles’s eyes snap up to him in something akin to panic.

 

“Of course I am serious!” He answers very quickly. “I know how you feel about being in control, and I shouldn’t have stolen that from you. You’re my friend, the only friend I have apart from Raven, but I’ve hurt you so badly in so many ways that I wouldn’t be surprised if you never talked to me again, so… no… I’m not joking.”

 

There are too many things in this rushed little speech that Erik can’t understand yet, not least of all the way his chest tightens when he hears Charles talk like that, too high-pitched and entirely too nervous.

 

“Let me get this straight, Charles,” he says slowly. “This past week, you’ve been attacked by Frost and had your shields shattered, but still faced down Shaw and two Battle Fleets while you were barely able to stand, then had your shields shattered again and brought about understanding between mutants and humans single-handedly, while saving all our lives. And you’re worried that I’m angry because you used my powers without asking first?”

 

Charles reacts to this outpour of words with puzzlement.

 

“Yes?” He tries carefully.

 

Erik growls with frustration.

 

“And I’m very sorry?” Charles tries again, and this time Erik can’t help himself. He crosses the room in three long steps, takes Charles by the shoulders and shakes him.

 

“You are an idiot!” He growls. “I’m not angry because you… oh, just go ahead and take a look, for goodness sake!”

 

He grabs Charles’s hand and directs it to his temple in an impatient effort of making him understand.

 

Charles hesitates. His eyes narrow in concentration as he enters Erik’s mind (not completely, not the way they were, inseparable and one, he’s just skimming the surface and Erik can barely even feel him). Then they go very wide.

 

“Oh,” he says. “You’re worried about me? I didn’t realize, I’m sorry…”

 

“Would you _please_ stop apologizing, Charles?” Erik grinds out. “Because I am really, truly at the end of my patience here. What makes you think that everyone is worth consideration but you? You nearly died out there, several times, and I caused you enormous pain, and still you think it’s necessary to playact around me? You’re not alright, you were hurt terribly, and you need to acknowledge that.”

 

Charles’s face softens.

 

“It has been acknowledged, and dealt with, and I’ve moved on,” he answers calmly, then smiles. “But thank you for caring, my friend. Thank you.”

 

There is appreciation in his voice, honest warmth, and perhaps a bit of amusement about Erik’s fairly melodramatic retelling of the week.

 

Erik can’t help but answer that smile.  It is true, not everyone sees the world as black and white as he does, and while the last days _were_ harrowing, it’s been difficult for them all, and problems with one’s power are certainly something they have all learned to deal with.

 

Charles has had it bad, sure, but it’s nothing compared to what Alex has gone through, again and again and again. Charles is an adult, he knows his own limits, and anyway, he has Raven, who’s probably chewed him out about this already and is far easier to talk to than Erik.

 

“Now, could I interest you in a game of chess, my friend?” Charles asks and Erik has already nodded his agreement and turns towards the table…

 

… when he realizes that the need to let things slip, to settle back into their routine and accept that Charles is alright – he said so, didn’t he, so why should Erik question his friend – that the urge to just let it go is not coming from _him_.

 

He turns back and meets Charles’s eyes, openly, properly, not for the society-approved one or two seconds, but as long as it takes. What he sees makes his chest tighten in that painful way again.

 

Because Charles’s face may be calm, the way his head is tilted may be confident and self assured, but then there’s his body language, the way he’s fairly vibrating with tension, and his eyes are pleading, they are begging him to just take the bait, to simply let it be.

 

“Oh no, Charles,” he growls. “This is not how we’re going to do this. Not today.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re on about, my friend. No chess, then?”

 

Charles’s eyes are so very blue. The soothing whisper of thoughts at the back of Erik’s mind gets stronger and stronger.

 

_Let it go, Erik, just let it go, it’s not worth it, trust me, let it go._

 

It should infuriate Erik, this casual and subtle invasion of his mind. It’s a breach of trust, and he’s punched men in the face for considerably less, but he knows Charles, knows him so well, and so he understands the things his friend is hiding carefully, the way his shoulders are hitched, the overly casual way he’s not facing Erik.

 

Charles is frightened. He’s frightened of this talk and this moment, and after the last week, after what they experienced together, this fear is both ludicrous and painful.

 

Charles has faced down Shaw, faced a sky full of rockets, and the damned US government. He shouldn’t be afraid of anything, least of all Erik.

 

“It’s not going to work, Charles. And, by the way, the thing you’re doing right now? _That_ is taking control from me and abusing your power, and you had better stop it right this moment.”

 

Charles’s face goes white, and for a panicky moment Erik thinks that something has happened to his shields again, but then the whispering in his head ceases abruptly, and Erik realizes that Charles hasn’t even noticed what he’s been doing.

 

“I’m so sorry, Erik,” he whispers. “I can’t even begin to apologize… Perhaps I’m not entirely well yet. I’d better…”

 

“You had better tell me why the hell you’re so afraid of having someone look out for you that you need to manipulate me into not caring, Charles,” Erik takes over the sentence. “Are you too arrogant to admit weakness even after what you did? Or can’t you face what happened to you? Is that why you’re trying so hard to tuck it all away and hide it out of sight?”

 

Abruptly, Charles turns away from him and walks over to one of the French windows. His hands are clenched to fists in the pockets of his trousers, his back stiff and noncommittal. He averts his face. He goes completely still.

 

But it’s too late, because Erik has already seen the shudder that has overtaken his friend, the way his face contorts into a grimace of hurt, and no stiff-upper lip or fake smile will make him forget.

 

And suddenly it’s the night before Cuba again, and Erik is lost in Charles’s memories, and Erik realizes that he has been here before, has witnessed this moment of withdrawing, of Charles curling in on himself and letting out nothing of how he feels, even if it’s close to breaking him.

 

He’s been there with the five-year-old that hid in his father’s closet to breathe in the familiar scents and just _misses_ , that walks such a long, long way across the grounds, until he’s sure he’s alone and then screams and screams and screams, because he’s six and Lisa has just been raped, and he can’t understand where all this pain is coming from.

 

He’s been there with the eight-year-old who forces himself to withstand the blows of his stepfather, meeting the man’s bloodshot eyes, because he’s heard that bullies respect strength of character. He’s been there while Raven forbids him to read her mind and the rejection hurts so much more than the bruises he hides.

 

He’s been there as Charles perfects his mask, becomes the pleasant, charming, unapproachable Englishman who is so self contained people won’t think twice about his needs, because he’s clearly a happy person, so obviously above and beyond all the problems normal human beings wrestle with.

 

He’s there when Charles turns from alone into lonely, and no one even notices.

 

He has lived it from the inside a hundred times. He knows how awful it feels, this terrible struggle to regain control, to stay aloof and let nobody see how he’s hurting, even though he’s spent the night crying over loneliness, a broken arm, memories that are not his, even though all he wants is to let go. But he can’t.

 

But only now that he sees the same thing from the outside, is not the one suffering but the one causing it, does Erik truly understand.

 

After all the secrets his telepathy has shown him and taught him, after all he’s been through, the one thing Charles Xavier has never learnt is how to be himself.

 

“Charles,” he says, and some of that understanding must show in his voice, because Charles shudders again, hunches down, withdraws so far into his own mind that he’s barely there anymore, only a cardboard figure with clothes on.

 

“You don’t need to do this, Charles, not with me.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Charles whispers, but it’s as if he’s not even trying anymore, and Erik counts that as a sign of success and ploughs right on.

 

“Yes you do, Charles, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But the thing you haven’t realized yet is that this, what we are building here, this friendship, this family? It isn’t a one-way street. It’s not about you protecting everyone. It’s about us protecting _each other_. Hiding yourself away from everyone around you like you’ve done – it’s not healthy – you know enough about the human psyche to be aware of that. You are not alone in this, Charles.”

 

This knowledge – not being alone – is perhaps the greatest gift Charles has given to him, but while it exhilarated Erik and changed his life for the better, it only seems to frighten Charles more. He turns away from the window, towards Erik, but the tension in his slight frame doesn’t lessen. He carefully avoids Erik’s eyes.

 

“But I _am_ alone. I have to be, Erik. There’s no choice. If I stumble, if I lose control, people do not simply get hurt. I don’t just push people away, I obliterate them. Nobody should get too close to that. You’ve felt it yourself – I’ve nearly driven you insane, and if I slip, if I’m not careful enough, that sort of thing could happen again.”

 

“I am willing to take that risk,” Erik answers, not allowing a hint of doubt to creep into his voice.

 

And Charles is startled, no, he’s shocked, disbelieving, as if he can’t imagine someone would be ready to risk himself, not for him.  Erik is mesmerized by the dance of emotions across Charles’s face, the way hope creeps into him slowly, lighting up his eyes, curling his lips, and he wants to answer that smile.

 

But before he can, Charles shakes his head, harshly, painfully, and draws himself back from the precipice he’s been balancing on for just a second. He takes control of his blooming hope ruthlessly, with the precision only someone as versed in the human psyche as Charles could ever possess.

 

And crushes it to nothing, cruelly, deliberately, leaving his face empty like a deserted stage.

 

“No,” he says. It’s a very final no. “I am sorry, my friend. You may be willing to risk your life, but I am not.”

 

And here’s where privilege comes in, Erik thinks absently. Because despite all the hardships that were, in fact, hardships, Charles has ultimately grown up in a world where people will accept his word for it, are, simply put, too polite to dig deeper. Whereas Erik’s always had to take what he needs from unwilling hands, because no one would give to him freely. Politeness is a burden he’s never had to bear.

 

“You don’t get to do this to us, Charles,” he therefore says, sharply, brushing aside Charles’s finality with ease. “I won’t allow it.”

 

Charles chuckles. It’s a very weak sound. He’s still not looking Erik in the eyes.

 

“Won’t allow it? I’m sorry my friend, but aren’t you overreaching yourself a bit? It is still my choice whom I trust and with what, isn’t it? If I decide not to talk about this with you, then I expect you to accept that decision.”

 

“But this isn’t a _decision_ you’re making, Charles. Don’t fool yourself on that account. It’s a gut reaction, born from fear. You don’t even know how to deal with somebody caring for you, because you’ve always been on your own in this, and you think that’s the way it has to be.”

 

Erik pauses, touching Charles’s shoulder, trying to somehow connect to the man that is locked up inside this stranger.

 

“I know how that feels, Charles, I’ve _been_ there for most of my life, but you’ve changed that, and how can you expect me not to reciprocate? How can you expect me not to look out for you in turn?”

 

Charles takes a deep, shuddering breath, and meets Erik’s gaze. Erik can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the fear, and when Charles speaks, it is as close to begging as his friend has ever been.

 

“Erik, please - just let it rest. You don’t know…”

 

“I do, actually,” Erik interrupts him, because he can’t let it rest, he won’t. “I know everything. Been in your head, remember? I know _you_ , Charles Xavier. Probably better than anyone else does. I know that you blame yourself for your mother’s alcoholism, your stepfather’s death. I know that you love Raven deeply, but would rather let her leave you forever than taint her with your pain. I know that right now, you want nothing more in the world than to reach out to me, but that you can’t, because you’re afraid this isn’t even real, that your desire for contact has somehow tricked me into caring.”

 

Charles is staring at him with wide eyes, and he looks so young right now, so vulnerable, so utterly shocked that someone has found him out.

 

“But this _is_ real, and I won’t let this go. If we’re to be friends, if this is to work, then you need someone at your side with whom you can be yourself, Charles. No one can be perfect all the time, not even a twenty-something telepathic genius with a mansion and a handful of doctorates. You said to me that I could do with friends – isn’t that true for you as well?”

 

For a moment Erik worries that this won’t be enough. That Charles will simply turn around and leave anyway, make Erik forget this whole conversation and that they were ever friends, return to Oxford perhaps, to the safety of his lonely studies.

 

But there’s the hope again, not quite as dead as Charles had thought. The knowledge that they have something truly precious, here, and that letting go of this would mean giving up a lifetime’s chance. Erik knows these are the things that clamour and contend in Charles’ mind, because it is what he himself wrestled with during that long night at the CIA facility.

 

“We’ve built this together, my friend,” Erik whispers. “I want you by my side. Don’t leave me now.”

 

Charles is still staring, frozen as if Erik’s eyes were the headlights of a speeding car. His breathing is shallow, quick and slightly panicky, and already his body is turning away from Erik, closing him off, reconstituting the distance he so desperately needs.

 

“It’s not that I don’t want to, Erik… I can’t… I don’t know how to do this…”

 

Erik grabs his shoulders again, forcing Charles to face him, forcing him to accept what Erik will say as truth, and their closeness is a rush of relief that makes him feel giddy.

 

“Then let me help,” he says roughly, his voice painting the future in the air around them. “Let us work this through together, Charles. It would be my honour.”

 

And Charles, stripped of his masks, his tricks, his shields, all those walls he’s erected between himself and the world, Charles nods, and reaches out, and touches Erik’s chest, lightly, just above his heart.

 

It is enough for now.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for now! Thank you all for reading and reviewing!

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this story derives from the following poem:  
> The apparition of these faces in the crowd ;  
> Petals on a wet, black bough.
> 
> — Ezra Pound (In a Station of the Metro)
> 
> For a discussion of its interpretation (and some of the reasons why I named my story after it) go and read the good Wikipedia-article on it!


End file.
